The Left Bank...of the Coosa

The Schedule

2012-01-09T12:10:00.000-08:00

My book art (and forensic) interpretation of the poem Little Red Riding Hood by Anne Sexton. I made this to use as an example for our Thursday's Build-Your-Own-Fairy-Tale Book Art demo in the Teen Zone. More photos at the end of the blog.

Just a quick blog to get everyone up to speed: Over the weekend, the Gadsden Times ran an article about the GPL Book Arts Project.

This morning, I did a promo for the Project on a radio talk show with some friends of mine over at 102.9. My phone has been ringing pretty much all day with calls from folks wanting additional info and wanting to pre-register for classes. There is no turning back now…

Here is our GPL Book Arts Project public programming schedule for the next three months:

January 5, 3:30PM-Papermaking for Children.
Pre-register in the Children’s Department, 256.549.4699, ext.118.
January 12, 4PM-Teen Zone Build-Your-Own-Fairy-Tale Book Art. Pre-register in the Teen Zone, 256.549.4699, ext. 122.
January 26, 4PM-Teen Zone Papermaking.
Pre-register in the Teen Zone, 256.549.4699, ext. 122.
January 31, 5:30PM-Papermaking with artist Joan Robertson.
This class is for individuals 16 or older.
Pre-register with Carol at 256.549.4699, ext. 107.
February 7, 5:30PM-Letterpress Printing Demonstration.
Pre-register with Carol at 256.549.4699, ext. 107.
February 16, 5:30PM-Bookmaking with artist Hilary Blackwood. Pre-register with Carol at 256.549.4699, ext. 107.
February 28, 5:30PM-Altered Book Workshop: Folded-Page Art. Pre-register with Carol at 256.549.4699, ext. 107.
March 1, 5:30PM-Poetry reading with author Irene Latham.
March 23, 5:30PM-Paper, Print & Poetry (P3). Exhibition & Reception.

My outreach schedule is solid for the next three weeks, with papermaking, letterpress printing and bookmaking at local middle and high schools. The following two months will be more of the same, but with some folded page art and some creative writing workshops thrown in for good measure. I will be taking vitamins, drinking Emergen-C, wearing sensible shoes, and doing daily yoga to keep this schedule on track. What was I thinking?!?

The End of the Grant Writing Info

2012-01-05T16:07:00.000-08:00

From GPL Book Arts Project:
At the risk of putting folks to sleep, I am going to now return to sharing information about the grant writing process. I know, I know. Writing a grant is not the most exciting thing to read about, but it is a good skill to have. AND I’ve made a solemn vow to share as much as I know in the hopes that someone will benefit from it.

The last section of the Alabama State Council on the Arts application that I addressed was Section C, so I’ll begin with Section D…which requested a list of “the primary artists, persons, and/or groups involved in the implementation of this project or activity and the qualifications of each person and/or group.” This is merely a request for the names of the folks who will make the magic happen for the duration of the project, and the things that make them qualified to do so (degrees and institutions, please). Simple stuff.

Next, the very thorough Section E requested a mass of statistical information for our institution, such as the year our foundation was incorporated, members on our board, the number of professional staff members, and our mission statement. Additional information in this section included reporting “Performance Indicators,” meaning number of schools, youth, teachers, artists and individuals benefiting from our institution in the past year, the current year and next year (a projection). Our library does a very extensive end of year report each year, so it was easy to track down figures for last year. As far as this year is concerned, I keep track of all program statistics (in-house and outreach), so I was able to estimate what our numbers would look like at the end of 2011. And I worked a little math to get the percentage of increase we typically see each year to project what 2012 would look like. So there. Done.

The section that I was most concerned about in the ENTIRE grant writing process happened to be the final section of the grant application, Section F. Section F is the section of the grant where one must “describe how the proposed project/activity fits the general evaluation criteria specified in the guidelines on page 8” (of the ASCA Guidelines Book). There were eleven General Evaluation Criteria in the ASCA Guidelines Book that had to be addressed concisely and thoroughly, so I had to turn off my stream-of-consciousness brain in order to write this section. I added no frills, nor second spaces after my use of a period (the character count made sure of it…I think I had two characters to spare when it was all said and done). Here are my responses to each of the criteria (I recommend that you look at the Guidelines Book to read the guidelines as they are stated by ASCA…then my responses will make more sense):

1)This project will provide free quality experiences for the community by featuring in-house lectures by artists and authors; demonstrations by letterpress printers, bookmakers, and papermakers; and educational community outreach at local schools and living facilities. We will also provide a venue for community members to share the creative results of their participation in the project (final exhibit).

2)Educational benefits include in-house lectures, demonstrations, and outreach. Educational benefits will continue after the project’s completion through continued letterpress and papermaking outreach.

3)Over the past six years, the GPL has built its free public programming and workshops from one program a week to almost five-hundred programs a year. Last year’s statistics indicate that 8,669 individuals benefited from our in-house and outreach programming (outreach consists of working mostly with the underserved populations, specifically with high-risk youth, the elderly, and the displaced). We currently receive support from and collaborate with all local schools (city, county, homeschool) and colleges, as well as the City of Gadsden, Downtown Gadsden, Inc., Etowah County Tourism, Hardin Center for Cultural Arts, Gadsden Museum of Art, and Red Cross of Etowah County.

4)The potential for long-term impact of this project is great. Equipment purchased through the grant will allow the GPL to continue with educational letterpress and papermaking outreach and in-house demonstrations long after the initial project ends. We anticipate continued public book arts projects and collaboration on future book arts programming with the professional book arts individuals with whom we will be working.

5)All participating authors, printers, bookmakers, and papermakers will be encouraged to bring examples of their work for display and for sale, so that they may benefit from their visit while educating the public about book arts.

6)We will share Alabama’s living cultural heritage by providing the community with educational opportunities to meet and work with Alabama letterpress printers, bookmakers, and papermakers. We will strive to preserve Alabama’s living cultural heritage by continuing to collaborate with Alabama letterpress printers, bookmakers, and papermakers and by offering educational opportunities through library programming that will continue long after the grant project.

7)We anticipate all artists and participants to come from differing ethnic and socioeconomic backgrounds, as well as from differing age and gender groups.

8) The GPL is fully handicap accessible and currently makes reasonable accommodations/modifications to its patrons with special needs.

9) We will create partnerships with local city, county and homeschool districts, thereby providing much needed supplementary educational opportunities for community students. We will also develop partnerships within the retirement/aging sector of the community by providing continuing education to those residents who are fifty-five or older.

10) The GPL was completely renovated and technologically updated in 2004-2006. It is a facility with ample space to accommodate the lectures, demonstrations, and workshops associated with this project. The main lecture room has the capacity to seat seventy-five individuals while allowing room for lectures, demonstrations and workshops.

11) The personnel involved in planning and implementation are all highly-qualified, mastered-level (or MLS seeking) librarians who are skilled at creating and overseeing quality programs and events.

Does that all make sense? Is anyone out there still awake after this blog post? If it is any consolation, my favorite response from someone proofing one of my grants came from my coworker, IT Guy. His feedback consisted of, “I expected more action in your narrative, and I think you need more character development.” Big help, he was.

For those of you who ARE still awake, I am now finished with the grant writing process portion of this blog. I promise to keep future posts shorter and less technical…I think.

An unglazed Baby Jesus.

2011-12-25T07:18:00.000-08:00

Years ago, when my mom enjoyed working in ceramics, she decided to make Vicki and me a nativity set, one for each daughter to cherish for years to come.

Now, there are a number of pieces to the nativity sets that mom decided to make for us. Not only are they made up of the three wise men and the Holy Family of Mary, Joseph, and the Baby Jesus, our nativity sets have a glorious Angel of the Lord, a camel, a shepherd holding a lamb, a sheep, a cow, a donkey, and a ram. They are full and unique nativity sets.

And my nativity set is even more full and unique than my sister’s. You see, somehow, my set ended up with two identical sheep (well, identical except for the one sheep that has the broken and mended ear), an extra wise man or two, and a random guy standing solemnly looking on. And unlike the fired glossiness of all the other figures in the set, my Baby Jesus has the matte finish of chalk (his straw-lined manger is glossy, but He is not).

I remember the first time I opened my box of nativity figures, and the first time I laid eyes on my chalky Jesus. “What happened to the Baby Jesus?” I asked mom. “Well, I was making so many nativity sets at the same time (which explained my extra wise men and my Dolly the sheep with her clone), and I guess I forgot to glaze Him with the rest.”

I stared down disapprovingly at my little unglazed Jesus and sighed. He wasn’t very pretty, and He sure didn’t fit in with the rest of the shiny figures…

Now, over the years I’ve come to really appreciate everything about that nativity set. First, my mom made it for me, herself. So it is special in that, when she wanted Vicki and me to have nativity sets, she didn’t go out and purchase us mass-produced ones from Kmart. She made them for us with her own two hands, with love for her daughters and with the spirit of generosity. Second, the sets are not perfect in a traditional sense. Speaking only for my own nativity set, I have an unglazed Baby Jesus, some extra wise men, a solemn unidentified guy, and a broken-eared sheep to go along with all the usual nativity stuff. Nobody else’s nativity set has all that, which means that my set is all the more special. It also means that when Eric and I eventually get around to building a crèche for the set, we will have to include an annex to house all the extra figures…

First Paper

2011-12-15T09:49:00.000-08:00

From GPL Book Arts Project:

Had my first papermaking outreach session yesterday at Gaston High School. The school media specialist, Heather Mashburn, allowed me to essentially take over her library and turn it into a papermaking factory! Throughout the day, I worked with over sixty teens, aging from 8th grade up to 11th (and possibly 12th) grade, and even did a quick impromptu demo for a group of elementary kids who had a counciling class in the library during my visit (the fact that the paper pulp looked like snot, that I pretended to sneeze the pulp out of my nose, AND that I allowed them to dip their hands in the pulp to touch it made the moment all the more magical...yes, I did actually do a demo of papermaking during all the playing).

The response was better than I dreamed it would be! The students were interested and very engaged, as was evidenced by the five or so young ladies who cleared the rest of their school schedules for the day so that they could be my helpers. And helpers they were…making paper until there was nothing left to make paper with. I’ve never seen a pulp bucket so clean in my life…

Some folks have expressed interest in my method of papermaking. Well, to be quite honest, after researching and considering a number of different papermaking techniques (paying special attention to things such as time consumption, availability of materials and equipment, cost of materials and equipment, etc.), I opted for a technique that combines two online tutorials that stood out to me for their use of recycled material (we are a library, after all, and have lots of used copy paper, discarded magazines and catalogues, old newspapers, and plenty of junk mail…all the things that regular folks would have lying about their own homes). The two processes that I most closely followed are those by Christina Fajardo and Kim Logue. Both artists offer similar techniques that I could replicate easily with a crowd. I highly recommend you check out their websites.

To view photos of Gaston High School's Papermaking on The Gadsden Times website, click here.

Thrift Store Harmonica Player

2011-12-10T04:54:00.000-08:00

On my way home from Mom and Dad’s house last week, I decided to stop at the thrift store to pick up some books to use for book art. While I was browsing through the 5 for .99 paperbacks, I hummed along with the live harmonica performance of “Shall We Gather At the River.”

Yes, you heard me correctly, a live harmonica performance of “Shall We Gather At the River,” and it was being played by a frail-looking little old lady who was sitting in a metal folding chair by the cash register.

As I gathered five paperbacks I absolutely HAD to have (Emile, The Portable Sherwood Anderson, The Mysterious Benedict Society, Holidays On Ice, and a second copy of All Quiet on the Western Front, 'cause you can't have too many copies of All Quiet on the Western Front), I listened to several other songs that I took to be spirituals, but cannot confirm as such.

By the time I came up to the register to pay, the harmonica player had stood up and was walking (with one of those pronged walking canes that ALWAYS make me think of Posiden) towards the door. She stopped and gave me a once-over.

“I like your pants.”

“Thank you, ma’am. They’re my painting pants. I was just painting over at my folk’s house. I like your harmonica playin.”

Well, about that time, the thrift store harmonica player reached over and took my hand, and she and I proceeded to walk out the door together, talking like me and her and Jesus had known each other for years. During the conversation, I realized that something about her was a little different, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Me: “You live ‘round here?”

Harmonica Player: “Just about two blocks away. Where are you headed?”

Me: “I’m headed back home. My partner and I live downtown. How’d you get here?”

Harmonica Player: “I walked.”

Me: “Well, can I give you a lift?”

Harmonica Player: “Oh, that would nice.”

So, I cleaned out the seat and helped the thrift store harmonica player into my car.

Sure enough, she lived just a piece down the road, in a modest brick ranch house that she referred to as “the retirement home.” While we sat in the car together for the next thirty minutes or so, I learned that her name was Ethel, that she was 90 years old, and was blind (macular degeneration, like my gran). She had several children (two of which she had outlived), and a husband she had been married to for many years (he passed away about eleven years after purchasing the retirement home, thereby not getting to enjoy the retirement home much). She loved Jesus deeply, and she enjoyed hamburgers.

I also learned some things about Ethel that her kids may not even know about, personal discoveries (that I’ll not mention out of respect for her privacy) that she seemed to come upon for the first time while sitting in my car with me. She was a revelation to me and to herself.

She lives alone. And likes it that way. Probably because there is no one there to stop her from walking down to the thrift store to play the harmonica for folks on a sunny Saturday afternoon…

Just the Facts

2011-12-08T08:50:00.000-08:00

From GPL Book Arts Project:

So now, let’s get back to the grant writing process.

Several blog entries ago, I promised to be as transparent as possible about my grant writing process. I also promised to post some of my responses to certain queries on the Alabama State Council on the Arts grant application. I will do this today.

Section A of the ASCA application requested information about the applicant organization. This section focused on identification (name of organization, legislative districts, federal identification numbers, etc.), contact information, and grant amount being requested. It was all pretty straight forward information.

Section B requested some projected statistical info (who will participate in the project, number of participants, number of educators involved, number of artists involved, etc.), and “a brief narrative paragraph that summarizes your proposed project.” My brief narrative looked like this (keep in mind the strict character count I mentioned in an earlier blog post):

The Gadsden Public Library will offer a series of educational book arts programs to the public designed to instill an appreciation and passion for the book as an art form (from both a literary and from an artistic perspective), and to present book arts in an accessible way. Programs will consist of lectures, demonstrations and educational outreach in the following areas: papermaking, letterpress printing, bookmaking, altered book forms, and creative writing. The lectures and demonstrations will take place within the library facility; the educational outreach will take place at schools, an alternative teen living facility, and assisted living facilities. Additionally, there will be ongoing educational benefits after the project is finished through continued letterpress and papermaking outreach conducted by the library outreach coordinator.

Section C asked for a project description, which allowed me to flesh out the narrative a bit more:

The GPL Foundation seeks funding for lectures, demonstrations and educational outreach in the areas of papermaking, letterpress printing, bookmaking, altered book forms, and creative writing. Through these programs, the GPL will provide a variety of educational, hands-on opportunities for the community to learn more about book arts. Additionally, the GPL will purchase letterpress equipment to use for educational in-house and outreach programs. There will be eight total school outreach programs (to schools and living facilities) divided up into four days of papermaking demonstrations and four days of letterpress demonstrations. The GPL will host three educational hands-on demonstrations/classes for the general public in the following areas: papermaking, letterpress printing, and book making. Internationally recognized book artist Brian Dettmer will present a lecture on altered book forms. There will be a writer’s residency with Alabama author Irene Latham (author of Leaving Gee’s Bend, What Came Before, and The Color of Lost Rooms) that will consist of three creative writing workshops for high schoolers, and one public reading/book signing at the library. The entire project will culminate with the Print, Paper & Poetry Exhibition (P3), which will be made up of works from participating students and patrons. There will be ongoing educational benefits after the project is finished through continued letterpress and papermaking outreach conducted by the library outreach coordinator.

Nothing fancy. Just the facts. Which is hard to do sometimes if you are a fan of creative writing.

More riveting grant writing info soon…

All this, in Gordo, AL.

2011-11-30T06:46:00.000-08:00

From the GPL Book Arts Project:

A little over a week ago, Eric and I made the trip to Gordo to pick up our tabletop letterpress AND receive some letterpress training from Glenn House, Sr. While at Gallery 121 (gallery and studio/workshop of Glenn House and his wife, artist Kathleen Fetters), we also got a whirlwind lesson in papermaking.

Photo used with permission, copyright Eric T. Wright.

The entire day was like a grad school class on steroids. There was note-taking. There was hands-on letterpressing. There was a lot of delicate-shimmying-and shaking of papermaking (you see, there is a subtle dance to which you must know the steps in order to do it right).

As overhead lights flickered and went out (chalked up to a longstanding side effect of Glenn’s personal magnetism), Eric and I listened to instructional information, cautionary tales (the ability of levers to crush or smash, Wickersham quoins to pinch, and the ease with which cast iron will break when dropped), and practiced papermaking dance moves until Glenn thought we could replicate them on our own once we returned to Gadsden.

In the midst of all this, we dined family-style at the endearing Cheeky’s Restaurant just down the street from the Gallery. Eric ordered the special, a Cheeky Burger, which was not actually a burger, but a grilled chicken fillet, smothered in wing sauce, topped with bacon, nestled inside a pretzel bun. The Cheeky Burger, as the proprietress told us, was created in loving memory of her late daughter. Basically, she took everything her daughter enjoyed eating, and put it on a bun…I can’t think of a better, more beautiful way to remember someone you love.

Photo used with permission, copyright Eric T. Wright.

Did you all know that there are other fabulous artists in Gordo, within a stone’s throw of Gallery 121? Photographer Barbara Lee Black has a gallery across the street from Glenn and Kathleen’s place, and letterpress artist Amos Kennedy works in a studio just around the corner. All this, in Gordo, AL. Wonder what else they have…

My Gordo Letterpress Flickr photo set.

A Tuscaloosa News article about Amos Kennedy.

...to see a man about a letterpress.

2011-11-11T06:01:00.000-08:00

Photo used with permission, copyright Ginger Ann Brook.

From GPL Book Arts Project:

Was headed to a cyclocross race just outside of Tuscaloosa a week and a half ago and accidentally came upon a landmark that I had been hoping to see for myself: the Moon Winx Lodge neon sign. Now, I had heard about the Moon Winx Lodge sign many years ago; had even seen picture of it. But, I had never seen it in person (it’s a shame to have spent so much time in the Tuscaloosa of the early nineties while friends finished law school at the University, and to have even earned my master’s degree from the same fine University many years later and have NEVER seen the Moon Winx Lodge sign). And I only found out who its celebrated creator was until I actually met the man myself last November, that man being Glenn House, Sr.

I saw the neon mustachioed moon sitting up there looking like some kind of mischievous (to use Glenn’s word) ambassador of Alberta City, Alabama (gateway to Tuscaloosa, in case you were wondering). And then I looked beyond the sign…to the pines snapped and scattered and strewn about on the surrounding hills, the rubble piles of houses and buildings, evidence of the almost complete devastation of the area by the mile-plus-wide tornado that ripped across Alabama this past April. How the sign survived the storm is anyone’s guess…

As long as I live, I will never forget what this particular tornado did to my friends, to neighbors…to folks I didn’t know but came to care about in the most powerful way. That tornado did some mighty bad things. But I’m here to tell you that some mighty good things came out of that destruction, too. Neighbors helped neighbors. Strangers helped strangers. Heck, I personally know of some Northerners who came down to Alabama and helped out a bunch of Southerners (yep, B.J. Hill, I’m talking about you and your Red Cross crew). My throat gets tight just thinking about it.

Now I know we’ve got a long way to go before we’ve cleaned up all that damage. And I know that some damage…well, some kinds of damage just can’t be cleaned up. But we’ll be alright. That Moon Winx Lodge sign standing up there on University Boulevard East proves that we’ll be alright…

We’ll be passing that way again soon; got to go see a man about a letterpress. In about a week I’ll be meeting with Glenn and Kathy in Gordo to learn how to use our new-to-us Kelsey 5x7 tabletop press and get a real quick lesson in papermaking. Eric is going to open up a can of photojournalism and document the trip. He’ll also serve as an extra pair of ears to catch important information. We are looking forward to it.

By the way, I’m sure you noticed the fabulous photo of the Moon Winx Lodge sign at the beginning of this post. You probably also noticed that the photo was taken by Ginger Ann Brook. Ginger (photographer, writer and eternal student of folkways) happens to be one of my favorite bloggers of all time. Her site, Deep Fried Kudzu, is an addictive assemblage of architecture, art (mainstream, outsider, and otherwise), food, horticulture…and a gazillion other engaging topics. Ginger was kind enough to give permission for me to use my favorite of her Moon Winx Lodge sign photos. If you would like to see more of Ginger’s Moon Winx photos, please go here and here. And seriously, you have to visit Deep Fried Kudzu right now! But like I mentioned, it is addictive…

Other Moon Winx things you may be interested in:

Tuscaloosa News: Iconic Moon Winx sign survives tornado

Alabama Public Radio interview of Glenn House, Sr.: Kentuck Artist and the "Moon Winx" connection

BeFunky Bungalow

2011-10-31T13:38:00.000-07:00

Years ago I received a Christmas card from a friend in Denver. The image on the Christmas card was a line drawing of her historic home. It was simple and beautiful. It made me want a home that I loved enough to have an artist do a line drawing of for a Christmas card that I could send out. I love The Bungalow enough to want to do that with its' image. But I don't have the money to spend on something so frivolous. So, I turned to the internet to see if I could find a program that would do it for free. I found BeFunky. It may not do a simple line drawing of The Bungalow, but it does some really fun stuff with a photo of The Bungalow.

My original image:

The InkyBungalow:

The LomoBungalow (so 70s):

The PinholeBungalow (aka HauntedHouseBungalow):

If you end up receiving a card from me with one of these images on it, act surprised.

Something useful...

2011-10-31T07:45:00.000-07:00

From the GPL Book Arts Project:

Summer went by quickly. We are always extraordinarily busy at the library during the summer, what with our Summer Reading Programs for children, teens and adults. This year was no exception. Days were filled with face painting, rock ‘n roll history lessons, and poetry slams. In a blink of an eye, we found ourselves at the end of August, visiting kindergarten classrooms in our yearly effort to bring awareness to September’s Library Card Sign-up Month. I had hardly stopped to breathe, much less think about the grant that I had written months before.

Then it came. It was an envelope with a return address to the Alabama State Council on the Arts. It looked thin, thin like some of the rejection letters I had received in the past. As I tore open the envelope, I was already imagining the letter inside beginning with the words, “It is with our sincerest regret that we inform you…” Instead, the letter began with, “I am pleased to inform you that the Alabama State Council on the Arts has approved a grant for your organization…” It went on to state the amount that we had been granted (half of what I wrote the grant for, no doubt because of all the budgetcuts the state has been experiencing), and encouraged us to contact all of our legislators to thank them for their support and let them know how the funds were going to be used. A contract/agreement would arrive soon. One must sign the contract and return it within thirty days so as to make the grant effective…

The agreement arrived about nine days later. I have since read the agreement, made more notes about obligations to the ASCA over the course of the project, and mailed it back. I have created a new budget based upon our grant amount, altered our schedule of events to fit the time constraints of the contract, and have begun emailing artists/lecturers to line them up for the spring. I am wildly excited about this project, and cannot wait to get started. We will begin in January.

In the meantime, I will be finalizing our schedule and hopefully be taking a trip to Gordo soon to meet up with Glenn House, Sr. Glenn, or someone from his artists’ colony who will train me on the tabletop letterpress that we will be purchasing from him. I very much look forward to the lesson. No doubt there will be something to blog about after it is all over.

So, between now and our January start time, I will be using this blog to keep everyone posted on project progress and share some of the grant writing process that got me to this point. I think it might be a useful thing for someone who is curious about writing a grant to the Alabama State Council on the Arts to see the way I addressed certain sections of the application. I know that when I first began grant writing five years ago, it was difficult to find resources to help me navigate my way through the writing process. Books about grant writing did not help much. I learned far more about grant writing by looking at already-written grants and studying them for their secrets than by reading Grantwriting For Dummies. Maybe someone out there will find what I share useful.

SUBMIT

2011-10-26T10:04:00.000-07:00

From the GPL Book Arts Project blog:

With less than a month to complete the grant application, I took every spare moment I had to work on the grant. I came in a half hour early here…stayed late twenty minutes there…spilled hummus and salsa and various other gluten-free foods on my notes while working during my lunch times. I wanted this grant too badly to not at least make the June 1^st deadline. And if the Council didn’t think it was good enough to grant this go around, I’d just work on it again and resubmit at the September deadline (as per my letterpress sensei Glenn House, Sr. advised). I was crazed and unstoppable…

After gathering all of the technical/statistical information for the Section B/Request Profile and for the Section E/Organizational Profile, I reworked my Project Description, Project Evaluation, and my Activity Budget. With a few more anxious emails to Ms. Boykin and some tweaking to content due to a strict character count (this is another reason why I went ahead and took a look at the application before I began writing), I was able to plug everything into the online application (I do the bulk of my work in a Word document).

I clicked SUBMIT and promptly tried to forget about the grant. The date was May 30…

Crunch Time

2011-10-24T06:40:00.000-07:00

From the GPL Book Arts Project:

There were two reasons for me to reach out to the Alabama State Council on the Arts: 1) to see if they were even interested in this project, and 2) to confirm which program area our project would fall under. I could visualize the GPL Book Arts Project falling under both the Arts In Education because of the great deal of outreach into the schools, and Community Arts because of its potential to reach out to the entire community. Hmmmm…

I wrote a Project Evaluation and fleshed out my outline a bit more based upon ASCA’s General Evaluation Criteria (part of ASCA's Guidelines handbook) before emailing Diana Green, Arts in Education Program Manager. Since the project was less about collaborating with the teachers and administrators of the 12-K system and more about working directly with the community, Ms. Green put me into contact with Deborah Boykin, acting Community Arts Program Manager. Ms. Boykin very encouragingly gave me some suggestions for the grant content that I had sent her, and said that yes, the project sounded “interesting.” Our email exchange took place on May 6. I had less than a month until the June 1^st deadline, and I had a month’s worth of regular work to do while trying to research and complete the grant (a golf tournament fund raiser, a writer residency with YA author C. C. Hunter, a teen Summer Reading Program to kickoff, a Gadsden Reads finale, and all of the following month’s publicity and marketing). Would I make the deadline?

All Aboard

2011-10-21T09:48:00.000-07:00

This is yet another installment to my new work blog (the GPL Book Arts Project...I will continue to share the posts here, as well as there because...well, because I'm writing the posts, and you guys may be interested in the process about which I am writing, too):

I’ve written many grants in the past. I’ve been lucky that the majority of them have been funded. But I had never written a grant to the Alabama State Council on the Arts. I just never felt like I was up to that caliber of a grant. Not to downplay any of the grants that I have written in the past. All of them meant a great deal to me, whether they were for large amounts or small. But, as most of you out there know, some grants are more complicated than others. Some grants consist of a one-page, online application and require no reporting, whatsoever. Some grants are several pages long and require a final report to prove that you were a good steward of the money that you received. Then some grants, like State Council on the Arts grants (in ANY state), strike fear in the hearts of a potential grant writer. State council grants are so competitive, so thorough, so you-better-not-even-think-about-recycling-a-raggedy-old-grant-to-these-people-kind-of-grants…you have to be on your game to even think about writing one of these grants. They require a great deal of thought, planning and research. No mistaking, I was going to have to think long and hard before I even started writing this rascal.

So, to begin with, I did like I always do when I start writing a grant, I researched the grantor. I went to the Alabama State Council on the Arts website to see if our organization’s mission was compatible with theirs. It was. Check.

Next, I looked up their grant guidelines. It turned out that they had a grant Guidelines booklet that was available to download. I downloaded it, and printed it out so that I could make notes as I read. Check. Check.

At this point, I went ahead and set up a grant account for my library so I could access and print out portions of the grant to use as my guide during the writing process. Check. Check. Check.

Although I had not completely finished reading the grant guidelines, I went ahead and decided on a very basic name for the series, GPL Book Arts Project, and sketched out a preliminary outline of the who, what, why, when, and where. I needed this information in front of me when I began writing emails and making phone inquiries to potential lecturers and interested parties.

The first people I reached out to were Jeanie Thompson (to make sure that I was headed in the right direction), Ian Robertson (to get advice on tabletop presses and to beg him to come to Gadsden as a lecturer/demonstrator) and Glenn House, Sr. (to also get advice on tabletop presses and to beg he and his wife Kathleen Fetters to come to Gadsden as lecturers/deomonstrators). Jeanie kindly assured me that the project sounded fundable, and encouraged me to keep moving forward. Ian Robertson graciously offered up some valuable letterpress resources in some of his personal copies of the letterpress monthly, The Printer (he was “doubtful” about travel, though). And Glenn House, Sr., in some of the most hilariously inspirational email exchanges I’ve ever received, took the bull by the horns and not only gave me some splendid advice on multiple levels (resources for lecturers, papermaking kits, tutorials, miscellany), but also (within seven days of my first query) secured a tabletop press for the library, payment due when the grant came through (evidently he had far more confidence in me than I did in myself). As far as lecturers were concerned, he and Kathleen were committed to too many other projects for them to be available, but he suggested that I contact Dr. Steve Miller at the University of Alabama to see about the availability of book arts grad students who could act as lecturers. I then asked award-winning author Irene Latham (who has given some entertaining and educational readings in the past here at the library) if she would be interested in participating as our writer in residence. She was.

It seemed that everyone was, in one way or another, on board for the project, SHOULD it get funded. The only other contact that I needed to make (as per the ASCA Guidebook) was to the Alabama State Council on the Arts itself…

GPL Book Arts Project...A new blog

2011-10-17T11:20:00.000-07:00

A grant that I wrote to the Alabama State Council on the Arts (ASCA) was recently funded. I was so thrilled, I almost peed my pants (no surprise to all of you who know that's what I want to do when I get excited). Since I will have to do some reporting back to ASCA, and because I already blog, I asked ASCA for permission to blog about the experience. They thought it was a cool idea, so I have started a new work-related blog, a place for my dealings with GPL Book Arts Project. I have just started it ten minutes ago, so it still needs a bit of work. Please feel free to visit it to see what I am up to over there:

http://gplbookartsproject.wordpress.com

In case you don't have time to go there right now, here is the post that I just published there:

A year ago November (November 6, 2010 to be exact), my partner Eric and I had the good fortune to be invited to the inaugural meeting of the Alabama Center for the Book at in Tuscaloosa, AL. Now, you may be thinking, “Hey, wait a minute. The Alabama Center for the Book has been around for awhile. How could you have gone to the inaugural meeting of the Alabama Center for the Book just last year?” Well, last November, the Alabama Center for the Book was moved from the picturesque antebellum home, Pebble Hill, in Auburn, AL to the Amelia Gayle Gorgas Library on the campus of the University of Alabama. The move prompted a gathering of book artists, letterpress printers, bookbinders, papermakers, librarians, book arts students, and pretty much anyone else in the book/book arts industry to discuss the role of book arts in the community and the best methods to create a greater visibility for book arts through outreach, exhibits and teaching. I saw people whom I had not seen in years (Jay Lamar), people I knew of very well, but had never met (Jeanie Thompson, Glenn House, Sr., Ian Robertson), and people I had just had recent grad school dealings with in some form or another (Dr. Aversa, Dr. MacCall, Dr. Miller).

Brainstorming happened. Ideas were shared. I was able to talk with several folks about my thoughts on having a book arts series at the Gadsden Public Library, a series that would give the community a taste of, and a better understanding of book arts as an art form. I envisioned workshops that started from the beginning of a book’s life with papermaking, to working our way through letterpress printing, bookbinding, and creative writing workshops to fill those empty pages! I saw us having in-house lectures, as well as take the whole shooting match on the road as outreach! I tentatively pitched these thoughts to some of the folks with whom I was sharing break-out sessions. My ideas were well received. So well received, in fact, that Jeanie Thompson of the Alabama Writers’ Forum encouraged me to look into writing a grant to the Alabama State Council on the Arts. So, I left Tuscaloosa with a fire lit under my butt to quit THINKING about the book arts project, and start DOING it…

More to come...

Safety Net

2011-10-09T05:25:00.000-07:00

I am not the kind of gal who flies by the seat of her pants. When I introduce an author at a reading, I always have a safety net in the form of a sheet of notes about the author and their work. That sheet of notes contains items that I have cogitated on usually for a couple of days, perhaps even weeks. Often, the notes come from the marginalia that I have scribbled in the margins and in between the lines of text in my copy of their book (if you have ever borrowed a well-loved book from me, you have noticed this obsessive habit…Eric says that he likes to read my copies so that he can see what I have written). The notes are usually a bit of a review of the book for which the author is about to give a reading. I do not usually read directly from the sheet of notes, unless I am reading an example of the author’s work, a review of their work, or some statistical fact about the author. But I do keep the sheet of notes on my body, or in my hand, should I need to remind myself of something I wanted to say.

So, I have notes for most of the author introductions that I have made over the last five years. I sometimes turn them into reviews of the author’s work and post them on Goodreads; sometimes not. Here is the fleshed-out version of my introduction of Dan, a sort of review of his work:

I cannot help but compare Daniel Donaghy to the great singer/songwriter Bruce Springsteen. My reasoning behind this is because he writes poems of the working class; the people working to make a living, to get by, but hoping for more.

In Start with the Trouble, Donaghy envisions a better future for people about whom he writes: the bikers, the prostitutes, the dock workers, the homeless, his own family…himself.

But there is no romanticizing. Some folks don’t get that better future. Donaghy knows that all too well.

From the poem Touch (pg. 38, Start with the Trouble):
“…in the days before we’d sit alone
aching to be touched,
Johnny Wurtzel looking for a hand

to pull him back from heroin,
Angel Beach reaching out
for the fathers of her five kids,

Danny Boyer wanting someone
to do something other than tease
his lisp and his weight, finding

only a .22 he pressed to his head
one night on Snake Road in the rain.

But some do find a better future, they make it for themselves, as we see in the personal journey the narrator takes us on. We find that he is transformed from a patron saint of nothing, to a man who finds salvation in the telling of others stories.

So, if you are looking for something worthwhile to read, pick up one of Dan’s books of poetry. Streetfighting is his first book; Start with the Trouble is his second and most recent book. They are both solid works, and I would recommend reading them back-to-back.

'Cause he's real good at what he does...

2011-10-08T07:42:00.000-07:00

Had the good fortune to have an old friend in town last week. It wasn’t a social call, but not every moment was work, either. Dan was in from Connecticut to give a poetry reading at the library and to conduct workshops at some of the local high schools. He did everything he came into town to do, and made quite a name for himself as he did. I believe that he may even be an honorary citizen of Gadsden now, for all his local-high-school-football-score-knowin,’ Gone-with-the-Wind-exhibit-tournin,’ and fried-chicken-eatin’ ways. That’s all fine and good, but the real reasons for him being an honorary Gadsdenite is because he gave one hell of a reading at the library, and turned about a hundred and twenty students into poets. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear of a Gadsden chapter of the Daniel Donaghy Club, and that they were working on an epic poem about his exploits along the banks of the Coosa. I could see it rivaling the story of Emma Sansom or Noccalula…

During one of the high school workshops, Dan brainstormed with the students and asked them to write two narrative portrait poems, based upon certain personal things, following certain guidelines. He encouraged me and my friends (a coworker, who was sitting in on the exercise, and the student’s teacher) to participate as well.

The students worked. They worked with eyes looking up to the ceiling while thinking. They worked with arms curled around their papers (to shield from prying eyes) when writing. They seemed unaffected by the assignment. Or less affected by the assignment than were the adults.

For us adults (and I’m basing my assessment upon the fact that, when I glanced over at my coworker friend and at my teacher friend, they gave me the same anguished look that I imagine was on my own face), the assignment was like what I would imagine a person’s first session of therapy to be like. I didn’t know where to begin. And once I started writing, oh, my gosh, I went and made the poems too personal, too therapeutic, too not-for-reading-to-a-group-of-high-school-students-with-whom-I-conduct-business-with-some-of-their-parents. I just prayed to not be called upon to read my poems out loud, which was fitting…because I’m sure that I would’ve felt the same way, had I been seventeen, and part of the student body that day.

So, with the understanding that I am not a writer or poet (although my parents may think differently because they are the people who bankrolled my ballet career, my painting career, my sewing career, which means I am probably still a brilliant ballerina/sartorialist/painter in their eyes. In actuality, I'm just a sometimes teacher of "Ballet for the Uncoordinated," a weekend sewer of stuffed animals, and a painter who can only do the kind of painting that is considered manual labor.), I present my two poems. As you will see, they are linked, and meant to be read together:

Dinner at Elizabeth Padgett’s Trailer, Waynesburg, KY, Summer 1982

A housedressed Gran at the stove,
scrape, scrape, scraping a wooden spoon along the bottom of the skillet.
A knock at the trailer door.
Sky blotted out by Uncle Roder’s dark form.
Smell of red-eye gravy and his hat is missing.
I open the door to his “I done her up right this time.”
This, over the sound of dinner being made.

Aunt Sarah & Uncle Roder’s Farm, Waynesburg, KY Summer 1982

Corn, rows a body could get lost in, leading to a bleached-grey barn.
Rustling of stalks, mom’s footfalls in front of me, and Gran stumbling out of the barn, “The son of a bitch’s killed her!”
A dog’s mournful wail, for hunger, not for this loss.
Me, blinking hard, an impossibly blue sky, even more impossible scene unfolding.
Nose full of animal, both body and manure.
Aunt Sarah, Uncle Roder, Gran, mom and me,
A straight-line equation equaling nothing good can come of this
On a farm in Waynesburg, KY during the summer of 1982.

What did I tell you? Not fit for certain company, right? Well, they are what they are. And I have Dan to thank for dragging them out of me.

Soon, I’ll be posting the intro I gave for Dan’s reading at the library. It’s not quite a review of his work, but it is pretty darn close, in my eyes. And I want folks to get out there and read his work. 'Cause he's real good at what he does.

What big eyes you have...

2011-09-19T10:54:00.000-07:00

I enjoy sewing. Like yard work, it relaxes me. But, other than the usual mending or hemming (I’m a short, wee lassie), I haven’t been able to sew much in the last ten years of so. I either didn’t have the room for my sewing machine to be out, which means sewing was never on my mind (outta sight, outta mind), or I just didn’t have the inspiration to sew (I like to sew as a project, or as a gift).

There have been an explosion of children in my and Eric’s life. Our Catoe friends boast three younguns, with plans for at least one more. IT Guy and his wife are expecting a little boy Sasquach soon. Our friends and neighbors down the street are expecting a boy, too. And there are chirren running all ‘round this sweet neighborhood we live in. I want to give gifts when births and birthdays happen, but the pocketbook is a little tight right now. So, I’ve taken up sewing again. Fabric comes in many inexpensive forms: vibrant linen thrift store clothing, a retired shower curtain, markdown fabrics at Walmart. I have managed to scavenge some really beautiful cloth and buttons from lots of different sources. If it still has life in it, it is game to be upcycled into something else.

I first tried to make a stuffed animal when I was about eight years old. A friend of the family had recently had a baby, and I wanted to make the baby a stuffed dolphin. My Gran helped me (Gran was a master at making Red Riding Hood flip dolls…you know, the ones with a granny and a wolf hiding under Red Riding Hood’s skirt?). She helped me sketch a picture of a dolphin onto a brown grocery bag, found some leftover grey fabric from wolf-making, and set me to work pinning, sewing and stuffing (with the end of a wooden spoon) what turned out to be a pretty nice little dolphin, whose curved body fit perfectly into the hand of the baby.

Now, I’ve not made too many stuffed animals since then. Most of my sewing has been reserved for alterations, decorative bags, pillows, curtains and the like. So, when I decided to try my hand at making a stuffed bunny, I’m not sure that I was mentally prepared…I drew a lopsided, misshapen rabbit onto a piece of scrap paper. I pinned it and cut it from a retired pair of beloved palazzo pants. I embroidered eyes, nose, mouth and tail. And I sewed and stuffed the little rascal. Yes, it required that I use the end of a wooden spoon to get the stuffing into all the ears, arms and legs. The end result was a bunny worthy of a Tim Burton film. All it needed were fangs and dripping blood…it was a frightening looking thing. But when I took it over to give to little Cash Catoe for his birthday, the other Catoe children wanted to hold it immediately. Now, I know the reason why they all wanted to hold it was less for its Tim Burton charm and high quality stitching, and more because there was only one bunny (it is a law that when there is only one item and three children, there is bound to be dearth and feigned despair). But then the other Catoe children requested a stuffed animal of their own. Zoe requested pink (probably because it is less about the shape and more about the color for her). Ben requested a bison (probably because Eric and I are affectionately thought of by Ben as large shaggy, lumbering ungulates…well, more so because before Eric’s accident, we played bison with him and his siblings).

So, I had my orders, and I took them seriously. Something in pink for Zoe. Something in bison for Ben.

I associate owls with Zoe because her mommy and daddy had an owl pillow waiting for her on her bed when she came home from China. Stuffed owls shouldn’t be too hard to make, so I began looking for simple patterns on the internet. And I found the most adorable one from the wonderful blogger Toad’s Treasures. Toad, who is a mommy, photographer, artist, among many other things, offered the cutest owl pattern for free on her blogsite. She also offers the pattern, plus an instructional booklet through her Etsy Shoppe for a very reasonable price. I think she’s the bee’s knees for sharing her owl pattern. And for posting a tutorial on owl construction on her website. I made two owls Friday night, while Eric worked late. I thought they were cute. The pink one is for Zoe. The blue one is for a forthcoming male offspring of a friend. Now, I just have to get cracking on that bison…

Gulf Water Under the Bridge

2011-09-17T05:31:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago I blogged briefly about where I was when 9/11 happened. It was a post that I named after one of my favorite songs, September Song. I first heard September Song as a child. My sister and I would spend hours dressing up in mom’s clothes and listening to mom and dad’s record albums. The album which contained September Song was entitled Music for Lovers and had a photograph of a suave adult couple having an intimate dinner at a crystal-laden table by candle light on it. The woman was half-facing the camera (cause she was leaning forward and looking deep into the eyes of her black-suited companion) and was wearing a Dior-like 40s dress. She had glossy, Veronica Lake hair, and I wanted to be her. The melody of September Song made me sad for no reason, so I equated the entire Music for Lovers album as melancholy, and I exhibited the appropriate amount of melancholy while acting out the album cover art in one of my mom’s fancy dresses…

Sorry, I digress. Back to my story.

9/11 happened while I was living in the Capital Hill neighborhood of Denver. My sister and brother-in-law (then, boyfriend) were visiting. After the planes and fire and rubble and dust of the morning, September Song kept coming to mind the rest of the afternoon, thus the title of that blog in 2009. But the song Concrete and Clay by Unit 4+2 also came to mind (a 1965 Brittish hit; see the Rushmore film soundtrack). It is a catchy, upbeat tune about love. Nothing sad about that. But the chorus, taken out of context and plunked into the midst of 9/11, lends a different feeling (the video is also a little eerie in the fact that the band sings and plays the tune from what appears to be a building construction site...a site that is reminiscent of what Ground Zero would look like after much of the rubble of the Twin Towers was cleared away):

"The sidewalks in the street, the concrete and the clay
Beneath my feet begins to crumble, but love will never die
Because we'll see the mountains tumble, before we say goodbye"

Really? I don’t know what to say. So, I’ll leave it at that.

There have been a number of 9/11 anniversaries that have come and gone, punctuated for me by a reflection on those whose lives were lost (many), and those whose lives were changed forever (all of us). But this anniversary of 9/11 was more significant to me. Not only was it the tenth anniversary of the World Trade Center attacks, but also my family had planned a vacation at the coast without realizing that the anniversary would fall during our time with each other. There were two things about this vacation that made the significant-ness more…well, significant: 1) my sister had secured a condo for all of us in Ft. Walton Beach, FL, which is where we used to spend our summers together at the Greenwood Inn as a family (owned at the time by a couple from Gadsden); and 2) Vicki, Tony and I were all together again on 9/11, which was something that had not happened since THE 9/11.

Now, a lot of water (both literal and figurative) has flowed under the proverbial bridge in the twenty-four-odd years since we vacationed as a family in Florida. Just to mention the most obvious: 1) We have a new addition to our family, my nephew Alex. He is a delightful imp. 2) My sister, mom and dad have all three faced some serious, life-threatening illnesses (multiple times) since our last visit to the area. I thank the good Lord every day that they have persevered. 3) And the Greenwood Inn was destroyed many years ago during one of the famous hurricanes (maybe Ivan), and the land upon which it stood (along with the adjacent land that the hotel my friend’s parents owned) has been thankfully preserved from commercialism by virtue of being turned into a state beach park. It was a blessing to be able to spend a couple of days eating and frolicking with people I love so much, at a beach that holds so many childhood memories. And to be able to share this with my partner Eric…well, it just meant more to me than I can ever describe. It was a time of reflection and communion.

Some feelings from you...

2011-09-09T17:06:00.000-07:00

Few people know that at one time in my life I bore a striking resemblance to Warren Zevon. I do not lie when I say this (if you doubt me, compare my photo to his, here). I say this with certainty and with pride. I really like Warren Zevon, so it doesn’t bother me that I looked like him when I was a pre-teen. It may have bothered me at the time this photo was taken, but it doesn't now. I mean, we all have to recognize that we went through awkward stages before we figured out how to handle our skin, hair, eyes, etc., right? Well, I’m here today, admitting that Mr. Zevon and I could’ve shared the same genes…or at least the same sense of style. I do sometimes kinda wish that I had looked more like David Bowie, though...at least he, on occasion, looked like a girl.

More embarrassing photos and stories to come...yes, I went through a VERY high maintenance stage...

Addendum to "You each have a chance..."

2011-09-08T06:17:00.000-07:00

Ms. Tozzi was not paroled at her hearing in 2008. And as for Ezra George Petersen, he “was convicted of capital murder in 1998 and sentenced to death. He committed suicide in his state prison cell in 1999.”

You each have a chance to make the right choice.

2011-09-05T11:46:00.000-07:00

While rummaging ‘round the attic at mom and dad’s house this morning, I discovered a long-forgotten box of my belongings that, from the looks of the outside it, had made its way around the northeast, southeast and southwest with me during my years on the loose.

As everyone knows, opening up a box like this is a dangerous thing. There could be all manner of time bombs lurking just underneath the cheap packing tape, time bombs that can trigger all kinds of emotions: happiness (the Little Red Riding Hood flip doll that Gran made me when I was a child), sadness (some of the porcelain birds that Gran gave to me…I never collected birds, she just thought I did, so she always sent me new ones…which means that yes, I did in fact, at one time, have a porcelain bird collection courtesy of my Gran. Only four birds have survived to be with me today.), wonder (I had no idea that I kept the little red speckled ring box that my Ampersand co-worker Megan made for me in her ceramics class at Auburn).

But this box also triggered anger. Among the old journals, newspaper clippings and tchotchkes was an almost complete copy of the Gadsden Times, dated Saturday, October 11, 1997. The front page read, “Drug Raid Turns Deadly.” This piece of newspaper was sent to me by my mother days after the raid occurred just up the street from their home. The police officers and detectives involved, injured and, in the case of Detective Chris McCurley, killed in the shoot-out, were people who my family knew. And because Rainbow City is a small Southern town, my family knew them pretty well (my sister may have already been working at the police department by that time). The incident was tragic, and forever changed our small town. People ‘round here still recall that day with the same reverence as they do the Challenger Disaster, or, more recently, 9/11.

Although I was not living in Rainbow City at the time (heck, I wasn’t anywhere near Rainbow City then, having just moved to New York months before), the story touched my life in many ways. Ways that I cannot articulate. And when I moved back to Etowah County nine years later, the incident continued to touch my life. Within the first year of being home, I read in the Gadsden Times that one of the people involved the shoot-out was up for parole. The article mentioned Detective McCurly’s widow opposing the parole, and provided an address for any letters on behalf of the victim and his family. Being so familiar with the case, and having recently befriended the fallen detective’s son Nathan, I felt compelled to write to the parole board. It is the first and only parole letter that I have ever written. It explains everything that I cannot explain right now, so I have copied it here for anyone who is interested.

31 December 2007

No one ever became extremely wicked suddenly. -Juvenal

Alabama Parole & Pardons Board
P.O. Box 302405
Montgomery, AL 36130-2405

Re: Connie Tozzi, ID number 203326

To Whom It May Concern:

On October 10, 1997 I called my mother in Rainbow City, Alabama to wish her a happy birthday. At the time that I made the call home, I was living in New York, having just moved away from Alabama four months before. It was early afternoon, an hour before I started my shift at work, a beautiful clear day (which I was discovering to be a rarity for upstate NY at that time of year). And because I had just been watching The Weather Channel, I knew that my family back in Alabama was experiencing the same beautiful weather that I was. I was terribly homesick and wanted to share a comforting, albeit long-distance connection with them.

During the course of our conversation, I noticed that mom’s voice took on a distracted tone, as if she were watching something on television while she was trying to talk to me. She interrupted herself mid-sentence by saying, “You know…something’s happening up the road…can’t tell what…all these emergency personnel vehicles just flying by without their lights on…I’ve never seen that many…must be something bad…I hope it’s not something bad…” I stayed on the line with her for a little bit longer, then had to go so that I would not be late for work. Mom said that she would call me when she found out what was going on.

What was going on up the road was this:

Officers from the Etowah County Sheriff’s Department and Rainbow City Police Department had arrived with a drug search warrant at suspected drug dealer Ezra Petersen’s home and were met with gunfire from Petersen’s semi-automatic weapon before they were even able to get in the door.   Petersen was aided in this assault by Connie Tozzi, who helped reload his gun during the melee and prepare for a getaway by gathering necessities such as more guns, money and drugs. The result of this deadly team-work was the killing of Captain Chris McCurley and the serious injury of Sergeant Gary Entrekin, Agent Khris Yancey and Deputy Rick Correll.

Later that day, I shared a much less comforting long-distance connection with my family while I watched a televised national newscast that briefly covered the story of the shootout, a shootout that took place up the road from where my parents lived, in my hometown where I grew up, a place where everybody knew their neighbors and called the local law enforcement members by name. What came to mind was how many times I had heard the foolish statement “It can’t happen here…”

Having morals means that one is able to make the distinction between what is right and what is wrong. To be ethical means that one deals with others in a right and just manner. To have a conscience is to have the moral sense of right and wrong. Morals, ethics, and one’s conscience are the tools that humans must use in order to coexist in a somewhat peaceful manner. Some people know full well the difference between right and wrong, and choose to act in the wrong. Although Connie Tozzi claimed that Petersen made her do what she did that day, she participated in the assault on October 10, 1997 in such a way as to incriminate herself beyond doubt, she planned ahead, without morals, without ethics and without a conscience. Prior to the shootout, Tozzi had purchased bullet-proof vests and guns for the two of them (some of those guns were the ones used to kill a veteran captain and seriously injure three other officers that day; the vests were worn to protect them from law enforcement gunfire). Tozzi also admitted to having participated in practicing for a possible altercation. Generally, one practices something so as to not be surprised when the thing that one is practicing for happens. Tozzi and Petersen were not a suburban couple practicing safety measures in the event of a tornado or for escaping a house fire. They were drug dealers who were practicing what to do in the likely scenario of being stopped by the police while out on the road, or if the police came to serve a warrant at their home. They practiced guerrilla tactics that would afford them the best chance at escape while inflicting the most damage to those who tried to stop them. Morals, ethics and a healthy conscience played no part in their planning. The resulting lack of humanity ended the life of Captain Chris McCurley, ended the career of Sergeant Gary Entrekin, physically (and without doubt, emotionally) wounded Agent Khris Yancey and Deputy Rick Correll, and forever changed the lives of the family, friends and co-workers who were left behind wondering how something like this could happen.

There must be accountability for one’s actions, especially when those actions are premeditated, criminal, and result in the injury and/or death of another individual(s). Connie Tozzi was not coerced into acting on October 10, 1997. She had the chance to make the right choice that day, but she had already made up her mind long before as to how she would act if she were faced with such a situation. She made her own practiced choices that day. And although she may not have pulled the trigger, she aided and abetted her partner in such a way as to maximize casualties. She pleaded guilty to her crimes and was sentenced to forty years for one count of murder and three counts of attempted murder. It is frightening to think that those officers walked on Peterson’s property that beautiful October day without knowing that there was an ambush waiting for them on the other side of that door.   They didn’t have a choice to go there that day, they were doing their jobs. And they didn’t stand a chance.

I have recently moved back to Rainbow City after having lived for six years in the inner city of Denver, Colorado.   I moved back because I missed my family and had gotten a little tired of the crime in my Capital Hill neighborhood. Now, Connie Tozzi is up for parole. This information makes me more than a little uneasy, for my family and friends, and for the victim’s families and friends. Connie Tozzi was not contributing to our community before she committed her crimes, unless you want to consider her contribution to help put drugs on our streets (which in my eyes is not a worthwhile contribution). And since her incarceration, I’ve not heard of her making any contributions, compensations or apologies to our community or, more importantly, to the families of her victims. I believe that Connie Tozzi is in the best possible place for someone who has committed the crimes for which she is in prison.

Honorable members of the Alabama Parole and Pardons Board, you have the opportunity to see that Connie Tozzi serves her forty years in prison, forty years that the court justifiably gave her for her crimes. When you think of it, forty years is a small price to pay for buying bulletproof vests and a stash of guns to use just in case the cops came around to shut down her and Peterson’s drug business. Forty years is a small price to pay for practicing using those guns when it was only a matter of time before the cops did show up at their door. Forty years is such a small price to pay for her knowingly putting the bullets in the gun that was being used to seriously wound Agent Yancey and Deputy Correll, extinguish the career of Sergeant Entrekin, and yes, to take the life of Captain McCurley. You each have a chance to make the right choice. Please do not parole Connie Tozzi, ID number 203326.

My sincere thanks for your time, and my regards,

Glad you called. I was just about to pack up the rest of the house…

2011-08-21T14:10:00.000-07:00

“Oh, yeah. See that? That’s not supposed to be sticking up that way (pointing to the jagged edge of clavicle that was darn near poking its way out of the skin). And this (mashing on the scapula), this feels real crunchy. That’s definitely broke, too. We’ll have to get an MRI, just as soon as we get that leg closed up.”

These are not words that you want to hear being strung into sentences and coming out of the mouth of the attending ER doctor who is examining your busted up mate. But there they were, being said while the nurses took vitals and started an IV.

Eric’s jaw was set in such a way that indicated he was in an extreme amount of pain (it would take weeks of healing and lots of pain meds for that jaw to come unclenched), but he managed to crack a few jokes, ask about his bike (without batting an eyelash, I lied and told him that his bike was fine) and explain that no, he had not been riding a motorcycle, he had been riding a bicycle (we had to explain this over and over again to the various nurses and orderlies who bustled in an out). Evidently these types of injuries are normally reserved for folks who lay down their choppers or hogs.

What occurred then was a flurry of hospital staff shift changes, a parking lot passing-off of Eric’s injured bike to Kris Catoe (who left the well-oiled morning routine that he and Laura have of getting three precocious children ready for daycare …thank the Lord for the Catoes), x-rays showing multiple broken bones (clavicle, rib and scapula…they missed the cracked humerus, which would be discovered the next day at the orthopedist’s office), visits from well-wishers, whispers of being sent to Huntsville to see a specialist (should the scapula be as badly broken as they thought it might be) and orders for an MRI…but only after the gaping and seeping wound of Eric’s shin was stitched up.

How do you mend a piece of fabric that has torn into a V-shape? You put an anchor stitch in the middle to hold the two pieces back together, and work from each outside edge into the middle, towards the anchor stitch. That is basically what the doctor did to Eric’s wound, starting with an anchor stitch in the middle, then working his way from the outside edges in. He used a couple of different stitches in his suturing, one which I recognized as a stitch that I have used in the past to close up the misshapen stuffed animals I’ve been known to make…the blanket stitch. The other stitch was one that I couldn’t recall, even after looking up on the Internet stitches used to close wounds. Surprisingly, during this Internet search of stitches, I did discover one called the Smead-Jones/Far and Near, which sounded to me more like a long lost Tolkien novel than a type of suture.

Once stitched, Eric was bundled off to get an MRI…and then…waiting…and waiting for the doctor to come and discuss the results of the MRI.

With the uncertainty of the situation, and the possibility of Eric being transported to Huntsville (pending MRI results), I asked the nurse if she thought I would have time to run home to put some real clothes on and pack a bag for Eric. She said that yes, I would have plenty of time before the doctor came back. I gave the nurse my cell number (just in case), grabbed Eric’s bag of belongings, said an anxious goodbye to my broken cyclist and headed home in lunch-hour traffic on Meighan Boulevard. While I drove, I planned every move that I would make in the house...how I would make a sweeping circle while grabbing everything we could possibly need in the next couple of days. Cell phone chargers, underwear, toothbrushes, deodorant, granola, insurance card, wallet…

I hit the front door running, and within five minutes had exactly half of the house packed up and ready to go. About that time, my cell phone rang. It wasn’t a number I recognized and my experience of answering a call from an unknown number earlier just that morning made me brace myself as I answered. It was the ER nurse.

ER Nurse: The doctor just came in. They’re getting ready to release him.

Me: Really? No transfer to Huntsville?

ER Nurse: No. He’ll have to make an appointment to see an orthopedist, but he’s about to be released from here. You’ll want to bring him some clothes to wear.

Me: I will. No problem. I’m glad you called. I was just about to pack up the rest of the house.

ER Nurse: Yes, that’s what I was afraid you’d be doing. I was trying to catch you before you did.

Me: Well, I appreciate that. I’ll be back up there in about twenty minutes…

Eric was dismissed with a signing of papers, a putting on of his clothes (I paid very close attention to how to get a shirt on him), and a fresh dose of pain killers (these I had to ask specifically for…I told them that he was already in pain, and that they needed to buy me some time so that I could get him home and then go out for his prescriptions…thankfully they agreed before I had to pitch a full-blown conniption fit). Yet again, he was almost impossible to get into the car. And yet again, he was almost impossible to get back out of the car once we arrived home. And little did we know that it would be almost three weeks before he would be able to sit comfortably, or even get a decent night’s sleep. Glad we didn’t know all that up front.

So, with lots of help from friends bringing home cooked meals, groceries, baked goods, Thai food…friends picking Eric up and dropping him off…lots of prayers and lots of well wishes, we’ve made it through the hardest part. Recovery has been comical while it has been hard. We laugh when we can, and just do our best to get through one day at a time. But short of the injuries themselves, I think the part that has hurt Eric the most is the loss of a cyclocross season, a cyclocross season that he was putting a lot of training time into. Thankfully, the season lasts into the winter months of 2012, plenty of time for Eric to be back on the bike and ready to hit the mud. We’ll just keep moving towards that goal. And we’ll try to remember the words of Hemingway, “The world breaks us all. Afterward, some are stronger at the broken places.”

Chewiest Gluten-free Granola Bars

2011-08-13T13:44:00.000-07:00

Back in 2008, a glutened-up version of this recipe acted as an urban family matchmaker of sorts for me. At the time, I was asked by my friend Cyndi to send out a recipe as part of an email recipe-exchange. I chose to send out my Chewiest Granola Bars recipe because it had served me so well over the years, and I thought that everyone would love it. I believe that only two people on that list ever acknowledged the recipe, the original person who started the recipe-exchange (the pun-tastic Gadsden Times editor and writer, Cyndi Nelson), and Laura Catoe. I knew who Laura was (we had mutual friends, and I was familiar with her graphic design work, as well as her writing, for the Gadsden Times); didn't know her personally. But, once the recipe ended up in her inbox, planets began to align in the perfect order for us to meet and become friends. There have been many shared recipes and many shared meals that have transpired since our first meeting (and Laura even dedicated a post to them once, which she updated when I discovered my gluten-free status), so I feel like I owe a debt of gratitude to the magic of the granola bars...

Here is the recipe, as I make them now, with a bit more gluten-free detail. They are super easy to make:

Chewiest Granola Bars
(I recommend organic ingredients, when possible)

1c Brown Sugar
½ c Light corn syrup or honey (I usually use honey)
½ c Butter, room temp.
2/3 c Peanut butter
2 ts Vanilla extract
½ c Sunflower seeds
1 1/2 c Bob's Red Mill Oats (or store brand oats, if you are not gluten-intolerant)
1 1/2 c Puffed Rice Cereal (I use .59 cent Walmart brand)
½ c Coconut, grated
1/3 c Ground Flax Seed (or Wheat germ, if you are not gluten-intolerant)
½ c Dried Fruit (raisins, cherries, etc.)
1c Nestle Semi-sweet Chocolate Chips (they are gluten-free)
1c Toasted Nuts (I use half pecans, half walnuts)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Coat inside of 9X12 glass baking dish with veg. oil. In large bowl, combine br. sugar, corn syrup, butter, peanut butter, and vanilla-stir well to the consistency of a paste. Stir in remaining ingredients and work the mixture so that several large clumps adhere together. Using fingers, press the mixture into baking dish (be sure to mash pretty hard, or you will end up with bars that fall apart, which is not so bad, either, because they are still edible). Bake at 350 for 18-20 min. until golden brown. Allow to cool completely before cutting into bars. I wrap each individually, and haven't missed store bought granola since I first discovered and tweaked this recipe. They freeze well, too.

Because I’m About to Break the Law

2011-08-07T14:14:00.000-07:00

I got a phone call on the morning of July 28th at 5:52AM from a phone number I didn’t recognize.

“Hey, it’s me, Eric Wright.”

“Hey, babe, what’s up?”

“I’ve crashed the bike and I need you to come pick me up. I’m up in Country Club.”

“Is this your phone?” I asked, knowing that he had accidentally left his phone at the office the night before, but I never think properly before coffee.

“No, I flagged someone down and they let me use their phone.” Nothing in his voice sounded unusual.

Eric then told me approximately where he was in Country Club, and I told him I’d be right there. I left the house in my bedtime clothes and flip flops, left lights on in the kitchen and living room, because I figured I’d be back quick. At least I had the forethought to take Eric’s car with the bike rack on it. I figured the bike was banged up, and that was the reason why he couldn’t ride it back to the house.

When I came up the first major hill in Country Club (a hill that is also a tight curve), I saw Eric sitting on the shoulder of the road, right in the bend of the curve. His bike was about twenty or thirty feet from him, lying among the pine trees and poison ivy of someone’s back yard. He smiled weakly at me as I pulled into the nearest driveway, which was across the street, behind him. He was holding his right leg at the shin, bloody handkerchief covering a cut that was bleeding enough to have soaked his sock. He remained sitting stiffly in place, no pivoting of the body or head, as I got out of the car and approached him. I don’t remember who spoke first or which questions were asked in what order, but I seem to recall an exchange that went something like this:

Me: “Where’re you hurt?”

Eric: “My left side hurts. I think I broke my collarbone.”

Me: “Well, we need to get you to the emergency room.”

Eric: “Yeah, that would be good. I think I gashed my leg pretty bad…”

Me: “Let me take a look.” (One glimpse revealed a cut that my kinfolk would’ve remarked upon with “Well, he done laid that leg open to the bone.”). “Yep, that’s gonna need some stitches.”

At this point, Eric asked me to move the car closer because…well, he just couldn’t really move too well. So I pulled the car into the road, turned on the hazard lights and prayed that no one would be coming down through there too fast…then I went about the task of getting Eric off the side of the road and into the car. The road shoulder upon which he sat was pretty steep, with loose gravel and patches of poison ivy here and there. I could’ve tried to help him up by his right arm, but that would’ve meant balancing myself with one foot up on the pavement and one foot down in the gravel. I might slip and take Eric with me. So, I did what I thought was best at that moment. I faced Eric, planted my feet on either side of him, squatted in a most un-lady-like plié, hugged my arms around his waist and lifted him to a standing position with my legs. Still holding as tight as I dared, I talked Eric through taking two steps backwards so that his rear was within sitting distance of the passenger seat. Two cars arrived from opposite directions just as I began performing what may have been the most difficult procedure of the day: folding my very-much-in-pain-and-very-much-in-shock-six-foot-one mate into a sedan that all of a sudden seemed about the size of a Volkswagon Beetle. One driver called out to me that I could use her phone if I needed it. I said thanks, but I had it under control…that I was taking him to the emergency room…if I could just get all of him in the car…

If it had not been such a distressing situation, it would’ve been comical. Eric seemed to be made of elbows and knees that didn’t want to bend, and limbs that I was corrugating to fit under the glove compartment. Quickly (although at the time it seemed impossibly slow), I coached and coaxed and tucked limbs until a complete Eric sat uncomfortably inside the car. How he remained composed and cooperative as we went through these motions, I’ll never know. All I can say is that there are times when shock is a blessing. This was one of those times.

Now, even though I was in unknown injury territory, I was running on adrenaline and instinct. I knew that Eric was hurt, but I felt like he was going to be fine. My attitude was very calm until something happened that almost made my wheels come off. When I asked Eric if he wanted me to retrieve his bike, his response was something akin to “I don’t care.” Fear gripped me. The hair on the back of my neck may have even stood up. Eric’s bike meant the world to him. If he didn’t care about the bike, then something must be terribly wrong with Eric. I had to act, and I had to act quickly. I sprinted through the poison ivy, grabbed the disabled bike (wheels would not turn), and secured it best as I could to the bike rack. Performing a three-point turn at record speed (thankfully, Eric’s car executes this maneuver far smoother than my car does, otherwise he would’ve been in much greater pain than he was), I exited Country Club and made my way down Rainbow Drive. Every bump elicited either a sharp withdrawing of breath or a hiss from Eric. All I could do was apologize in advance for the bumps I knew were coming, or apologize for the ones I had just hit. As we came up to the red light by Applebee’s, Eric mentioned that I still had the hazard lights on, and that I could probably turn them off now. My response was to look for any potential vehicular hindrances and say, “Well, no, I’m gonna leave them on, because I’m about to break the law.” We went on through the red light and got on the bypass that spits traffic out on the East side of town, the side of town where the hospital is located.

What with all of the multiple surgeries my sister, dad and mom have had at that hospital, I know every bump between here and there. And there are a lot of bumps. I couldn’t even look at Eric the entire stretch of Meighan Blvd. between Hood Ave. and the hospital cutoff. It must’ve been a nightmare. The only blessing about it was the fact that it was so early in the day, there was hardly any traffic to slow us down. So, we arrived at the emergency room relatively quickly, even if one of us was worse for wear. The only issue that I now had to face was how to get Eric out of the car that I had just ten minutes ago pleated him into. Could he walk? No. I ran in for a wheelchair. Again, how to get him out of the car? By this point, Eric’s entire body seemed to be giving into the trauma, so great was his pain. I knew I would not be able to wrangle him out of the car and into a wheelchair on my own, so I ran back in and asked the nurse to find an orderly to help me with “a cycling accident victim with possible broken bones” (I wanted to sound as if I knew what I was talking about, and that they better get someone to help me, stat. Stat, I say!). An orderly who was blessed with both a calming demeanor and the stature of a hay-bale-throwing farmhand came to save Eric from my final attempt at turning him into an origami version of himself. I’ve never felt relief so sweet as that I felt when Eric was rolled into the ER…

It is here that I will suspend my storytelling. Eric has begun his account of the accident on his website, so it seems appropriate to stop at the same spot where he did. But, I do have one more thing to add before I go: Eric’s Garmin was still tracking speed while I was driving to the hospital that day. According to the stats, I never went over 55 miles per hour the entire time I was driving, including the time when I ran the red light. So, I may have been breaking the law, but I was doing it in a cautious and reserved way.

Update: Part Deux of this story may be found here.

We were just playin'...

2011-06-15T11:34:00.000-07:00

About three years ago, my friend Tami Brooks and I started a fake grass roots campaign to save the Beavers of South 11^th. It all started when I came into work one day after a great big rain, and exclaimed to Tami (who happened to be a coworker at the time), “Hey, I just passed, like, three dead beavers on the way into work today! They were all on South 11^th, and they WEREN’T run over!” Her response was to drop her voice conspiratorially and half-whisper, “How do you think they died?” “I don’t know!” I said. And then I added (obviously, without thinking), “Maybe they drowned when the creek flooded from the rain! Maybe they need to be saved from the next flood!” A look crossed Tami’s face. It was a look that anyone knowing Tami Brooks knows meant, “Oh, you may be on to something,” and “There is no way we are getting any work done today, cause now we’ve got a subject to focus on that no normal person would entertain the idea of thinking twice about.” I believe that the last words Tami said to me before we headed off to our respective offices that day were, “Maybe we SHOULD save the beavers of South 11^th…”

Now, y’all have got to understand that Tami and I can take the most inane and even insipid topics and turn them into the day’s headlining news story. To say we are hyperbolic (in a rhetorical, not mathematical sense) is a complete understatement. Give us a June-bug-green car with its alarm going off, and one of us'll make it into more than a June-bug-green car with its alarm going off…

So, in between program planning and readers’ advisory that day, Tami created a Facebook page entitled Save the South 11^thStreet Beavers. She also found (what luck) a cartoon image of a beaver wearing a red life vest with I Look Best In My Life Vest written underneath it. Brilliant. I became the second member of the group. And then, just to give the group authenticity, I wrote the following fake meeting minutes to our fake Save the South 11^thStreet Beavers meeting:

Although there have been no new reports of beaver fatalities on So. 11th Street, there is still a concern about the health and safety of our semi-aquatic, rodent friends. Several suggestions were made for upgrading our So. 11th roadway with eco-friendly passages that would allow the safe and uninterrupted flow of beavers from one side of the road to the other:

Beadestrian Overpass-Suggested by Jimmy Brooks, this passage would be a structure similar to the pedestrian overpasses common in big-city hospital and school zones. Pros: open to fresh air, can travel at own pace. Cons: Beavers will be at risk in inclement weather.

The Pipeline-This suggestion was made by myself. It is really a simple concept of a level pipeline that will span the roadway; beavers will be able to enter the pipeline at banklevel on one side of the road, travel at their own pace through the pipeline, and exit the pipeline at banklevel on the destination side of the road. Pros: protected from weather, can travel at own pace. Cons: poor airflow.

The Luge-Eric Wright made the suggestion of creating a beaver luge (like the dangerous Olympic sport), which would require the building of an artificial raised track that spanned the roadway. Beavers would be allowed to take a luge sled across the roadway on the luge track. Of course this type of travel will be "timed, and the luger must depart from the start handles within a certain time once the track is declared clear."
Pros: timely travel. Cons: disqualification if the beaver pushes the sled across the finish line.

We were just having fun. But then we had people request to join the group, which was fine, if it had stopped there. But it didn’t. It only stopped after a member of the local TV media contacted Tami to get the scoop on the story. They thought it would make a great feel-good piece…until Tami fessed up that it was a fake group. See, we never dreamed anyone would take us seriously…honestly, we were just playing.

The Bungalow: Back Garden, Then & Now

2011-06-02T09:09:00.000-07:00

Here is a photo of The Bungalow's back yard from a little over a year ago (April of 2010), when I first looked at the property with the greatest realtor EVER, Judy Hamil (she is one of my downtown plant exchange people now, too). The sweet shrub and forsythia are the only things in the middle. Overgrown azaleas line the fence on the right. The massive gardenia is at the back gate.

Here are some photos of The Bungalow back garden now:

The massive gardenia is still at the back gate, but I thinned it out and fertilized it this year, so it has given us a glorious show (and a great smelling yard). I hard pruned the azaleas last summer while Slim was in Africa (you can hardly see them in these photos), but they laughed at my attempt to control them and are now coming back in a more natural shape (which I prefer to a hair-cut-hedge-row shape). Sweet shrub and forsythia are still there, just cut into submission. The bargain section of the garden is to the back, and right: Seventy-five-cent-from-Lowes'-off-season-sale Red Velvet Yarrow is so big, it's laying down now; burn-your-eyes-red, Dollar Tree gladiolus are standing tall; two-dollars-a-pot-from-Lowe's-off-season-sale Russian Sage is at the back, closest to the stob (Yes, that's what I said. We have a concrete and steel stob in our garden. We found it by the back fence when we moved in. We thought to throw it out, but kept forgetting about it...plus, it weighs so much, we didn't feel like moving it. I looked at it so long, thinking, "Every Southern yard needs a stob that is good for nothing except for lookin' at. It just shows that somethin' was there at one time, but no longer is." So while Slim was at church last Sunday, I dug a hole, rolled the stob up to it, and reburied it as part of the garden. When I excitedly showed it to Slim later in the day, I explained about how it added a nice preserved-decay/architectural feel to the place...I think he just sighed and accepted it, which was real sweet of him.). Beside the stob, but behind the gladiolus is a patch of white clover that that came from the seed Susan DiBiase gave me. It is so pretty, I let it grow up a bit. Also, I let it grow up so that my sister and nephew could go through it looking for 4-leaf clover. My sister is an expert 4-leaf clover finder. And she's grooming her son to step into her 4-leaf-clover-finding shoes. He sure is patient little grasshopper...perfect concentration for a job like 4-leaf clover finding.

You can kinda see the marble question-mark path that runs through the garden, which I already mentioned in a past post. To the left of the path, you can just make out the rose bed, which is made up of all the roses I transplanted last summer from mom and dad's yard, as well as one rose that Miss Judy the Realtor gave me from her yard. I've been fighting with the deconstructive forces of sawfly larvae on the roses this year. They were stripping the leaves off the bushes, so I ended up Neeming every morning to keep them away (I also used the effective old school technique of pulling the worm off of the plant and stomping it flat...the worm, not the plant).

There are lots of other plants I've added in the back: a small clump of blue fescue, some iris, some Crocosmia Lucifer that won't produce until next year, some cosmos from last year, day lilies, lots of violets (which are wilting in this heat), some other crocosmia that our neighbor Douglas' mother-in-law gave me one morning, cannas (also from Douglas, but from his trash pile) and some spring plants that have already bloomed and died back (daffodils and crocus). We have some sunflowers growing by the house, and some Roma tomatoes. And then there are the plants that have been there for a long time, and continue to be there: hydrangea, money plant, surprise lilies, ham & eggs lantana...the works. We are NOT going to run out of plants any time soon.

To the far left of the back yard is a fence that links our back yard to the neighbor's back yard. We wanted to soften the look of the fence and create some privacy, so we started researching what types of evergreen shrubs we would like. We had it narrowed down to a particular type of arborvitae, but were waiting to order them until we could budget them in. Then, last Saturday, Kris Catoe called me saying that he had acquired a load of Indian Hawthorn, and would I like the leftovers once he planted what he needed. Does a bear poop in the woods? So, while Slim was in Anniston on a Mellow Mushroom ride, I made the executive decision to accept any leftovers that were leftover. Kris dramatically deposited five Indian Hawthorn shrubs on our porch within the half hour (he lined them along the front porch entryway so that the first thing I saw when I stepped out the front door was a glorious display of hawthorn). I proceeded to plant them as a surprise for Slim when he got home. Unlike the reception our stob would get the next day, Slim's reaction was one of happy surprise. His words were, "Our yard is coming together!" I think so.

Here is the fence side right before planting:

Here it is during the process (I forgot to take one after, but they look about the same):

Nothing is mulched yet. We're waiting until the majority of the planting is done before we borrow someone's pick-up to go get a couple of loads of mulch.

I'll post about the front yard just as soon as the stumps are ground up and out of the way. AND after we get the azalea lace bug problem under control (the drought has causes some azalea stress, which was a gate-way for the lace bug to step in and start draining the sap from the leaves. It is a sad sight, all those leaves looking so pale...). For now, that's all I have to say.

"The Truth As It Seemed"

2011-05-27T12:46:00.000-07:00

Since we are finishing up our 2011 Gadsden Reads, I decided last week that I would go ahead and get a jump on next year’s community read by skimming through the text of the book we chose for 2012. I was unable to skim. I read the entire book, because I couldn’t put it down. But I’m not sure that I was prepared to read Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried. I had heard amazing things about the book. That it was one of the most important pieces of fiction written about the Vietnam War. That it was a powerful account of what actually happened during the war. And that it was a statement to the nightmare of war.

While The Things They Carried is all those things, it is far more. O’Brian’s collection of short stories is possibly one of the truest statements to the chaos of the Vietnam War, the psychological struggles that our soldiers went through during the war, the psychological AND social struggles that they went through when they returned stateside. These soldiers had their morals and their lives jeopardized daily....no, hourly. It was a torturous existence they lived while fighting in Vietnam. Fighting an enemy that they could not accurately identify (How do you tell a North Vietnamese person from a South Vietnamese person? It would be like trying to identify a north Alabamian from a south Alabamian based upon looks…it is impossible to tell the differences in a split second, and through appearances alone), on a front that may or may not have really existed (guess it depends upon who you ask). I’m not saying that soldiers in other wars didn’t suffer the same kinds of atrocities during combat. They did. And they still do. But, I’ve just always felt that the Vietnam War was such a stinking unpopular war, such a stinking long war, such a stinking un-winnable war, that the veterans from that particular war got blamed for all of the badness, badness that they couldn’t really control. And that’s no way to treat somebody who fought for our country. But that’s just my opinion.

O’Brian’s style is approachable. He uses lists in the title story, something that reminds me of Whitman, and he uses a poetic style of repetition that keeps you from forgetting small details, details that make the stories more believable (or maybe the repetition is from the shock that he perhaps still suffers from all these years later). But O’Brian also employs the technique of the unreliable narrator. He reminds us over and over to be skeptical of war stories, thereby reminding us that he, the author, is not to be trusted either.

“In any war story, but especially a true one, it’s difficult to separate what happened from what seemed to happen. What seems to happen becomes its own happening and has to be told that way…The picture gets jumbled; you tend to miss a lot. And then afterward, when you go to tell about it, there is always that surreal seemingness, which makes the story seem untrue, but which in fact represents the hard and exact truth as it seemed.” (pg. 78 from the Penguin Books paperback version). “In many cases a true war story cannot be believed.”

The book is labeled fiction, but one cannot help but get the sense that it is not. The Things They Carried is similar to, but different from my other all-time-favorite, gut-wrenching war books (Johnny Got His Gun, All Quiet on the Western Front, and Song for Night). The details are a little more raw in Things, a little too real. O’Brian sets us up, and then rips the rug out from underneath us. Not that we didn’t expect it, ‘cause we did. Who wouldn’t expect something like that from a war novel? We find ourselves lying on the floor with the wind knocked out of us, feeling a little sick to our stomachs, wondering if the passage we have just read is real, or if it is an altered version of what happened somewhere. Doesn’t matter. O’Brien got it right. So we find ourselves staring at the blurb on the back of the book, a statement from the Milwaukee Journal stating, “This writing is so powerful that it steals your breath.” Damn straight, it does.

One of my dearest friends was a Vietnam Vet. A hell of a guy by the name of Randy Dover. He was a friend of my Daddy’s through the VFW Post 8600, so I met him when I was tagging along with dad one night. Once I turned twenty-one, I became a Ladies Auxiliary member, and although I didn’t have to tag along with Dad anymore, I still did ‘cause he had a knack for attracting storytellers. Randy was just one of many storytellers there. Daddy had warned me to not believe all the stories I heard there at the VFW, and for the most part, I heeded his warning. But still, I enjoyed listening. Just as long as the story was good, I didn’t care if it was true or not.

Randy had some stories. And they were good, too. He possessed a voice that was soft and Southern, that drew you in. He also possessed an astounding ability to talk a blue streak. Told stories all the time. Simple stories with the sort of exact and crucial details that made you lean closer, so you wouldn’t miss any of them. Some of the stories were real believable, like his story about the one time he flew a small private plane under the Broad Street Bridge without being found out by the police. Other stories were maybe a little less believable (but I suppose believable nonetheless, cause with Randy, there was always the possibility that it could’ve happened), like the story he told about the song he said he wrote while he was over in Nam, a song that he said he tried to sell back in the States, but lost the rights to through his own naiveté and through an unscrupulous music industry. The song, Without You (credited to Pete Ham and Tom Evans, and made into a huge Grammy-winning hit in 1971 by Harry Nilsson), was something that Randy would on occasion play at the VFW. To this day, I can’t hear that song without thinking of Randy strumming on his acoustic guitar, singing with his eyes closed (maybe because he didn’t want us to see how everything about that song hurt him)…

Then there were the times when Randy didn’t have a lot to say, but he spoke in volumes. I remember the one night I arrived at the 8600 a little later than I usually did. The place was buzzing about a fight that had just been broken up out in the parking lot. See, a fella and his date had shared some heated words in the bar, and once they stepped outside, the fella took a swing at the lady. Now, being the gentleman that he was, Randy evidently stepped in to defend the woman’s honor. Some more punches were thrown, as well as some fine words of negotiation on Randy’s part, and then the fight ended with all parties agreeing to not hit anybody anymore (at least for that night, and in that parking lot). I went looking for Randy to congratulate him on his persuasive mediating skills, and I found him shaken-up and pale, with blood on his white shirt.

“Where’re you hurt?!” I demanded, getting up in his business. “Nowhere,” he responded. “At least not nowhere physical.” His hands shook so bad, I ordered him a liquor drink from the bar to steady them. He was not hurt at all, he claimed. He was just having a hard time with the sight of the blood. Sometimes, he said, seeing blood would take him back to Nam, and that just wasn’t a place he really wanted to go to ever again. Not wanting to pry, I didn’t question him any further. His hands kept shaking, and after awhile of things not improving for him, he asked me if I would just go on and drive him home. I wasn’t quite comfortable with the idea of leaving him alone for the night, and he didn’t seem quite comfortable with the idea either. So, we sat in the car in his driveway for the longest time, talking about the kind of stuff you talk about when you’re trying to avoid talking about tough stuff. He never did talk about the war that night, but he did eventually tell me about how he would sometimes sleep walk and dream that he was back in the jungle fighting. That was the reason why one of his wives had left him. Evidently she had her fill of him late one night when the neighbors woke her out of a dead sleep to come and get Randy out of the backyard. He had been sleepwalking, and dreaming that he was fighting. The problem for the neighbors was that Randy was naked as the day he was born, and was brandishing a broom like an M-16 assault rifle. It seemed that the good folks of downtown Gadsden, including Randy’s wife, did not appreciate the situation for what it was: a soldier suffering from PTSD (even after all those years). All they saw was a buck-naked man with an assault broom within city limits…

Eventually Randy got settled down enough that night for me to feel okay to leave him alone. When next I saw him, which was about a week later, he was back to his old easy-going self. I don’t recall ever having another opportunity to talk with him about his personal experiences in the war, nor to question him for more details about the other stories he shared with us. I did get to see him months later at a VFW dance function they had over at Post 2760, but we didn’t get to talk much cause Randy made the mistake of asking me to swing dance that night. He spent half of the night fussing at me because I wouldn’t let him lead (I fussed back, explaining to him that my momma taught me to dance that way, and that if he wanted to dance with me bad enough, then he was just going to have to get used to being led…and that maybe, if he REALLY didn’t like the way I danced, he could just take it up with my momma), and spent the rest of the night trying to avoid dancing with me. Even eleven years later, when I settled back into Gadsden after living in a bunch of different places, and I looked Randy back up to help me with a music program I was working on for the library, I still didn’t ask him about his past. His health wasn’t great by that time, but he assured me with a squeeze on my arm that he was doing well and could help me out. I wish I had asked him then about the time he spent in Vietnam instead of talking to him about library programming and his new Harley. And now, well it’s too late, because Randy passed away a couple of years ago. But I’ll tell you something, we wouldn’t have had the prizes that we had for our School of Rock finale that year if it hadn’t been for Randy. See, he used his persuasive skills on a Washburn rep to score us a beautiful new guitar to give away…

Human memory is a strange thing. I’m inclined to agree somewhat with Tim O’Brian in the truth of a story being the “truth as it seemed.” I’ve had many a conversation about storytelling, and how everyone’s perceptions and recollections are different. Even as an adult, I’ve written journal entries about things that I somehow have ended up altering somewhat in my mind later down the road. I have to go back and check my facts sometimes. Sometimes I just stick with the way I remember it happening. Perhaps it is a bit of the collective memory of which poet Natasha Trethewey has spoken. We, along with others, witness something. We recount our stories to each other, and we end up sharing and meshing our memories, but they become our own. My memory of incidents from my childhood are made up not only of what I remember, but also of bits and pieces of recollections given to me from my mother, father, sister, grandmother, grandfather…you get the picture. It all gets mixed up in the brain, and then it becomes one…

So, even though this post has been terribly long, I have one more thing to say. Although the song Without You is credited to Ham and Evans, I prefer to believe that my friend Randy Dover wrote it. Nobody will ever know the truth of whether or not it was swiped from a young soldier from Alabama who fought in the Vietnam War…And, as I’ve stated on more than one occasion, and about many different things, I prefer the not knowing to the knowing.

A Mighty Powerful Porch

2011-05-09T05:05:00.000-07:00

Eric and I knew we had a porch that was mighty powerful. And what has happened recently on that porch has solidified our belief in our porch’s power.

You may recall back a year ago when I bought The Bungalow, one of the main selling points was its deep porch with a perpetual cross breeze. I had fallen in love with it just as the previous owner Ms. Mildred had some fifty-three years before. That porch just calls to you to come and sit awhile. And the furniture upon which you sit is the same furniture that has graced the porch since around the fifties (vintage metal glider, chaise lounge and chair that I negotiated for in the closing of the house). I mean, when you’ve got something good, some mix of special, why mess with it?

So, in the past year, Eric and I have had many a meal and many a causal evening with friends out on that porch. When our friends Farrah and Jared came to Gadsden to give poetry readings and workshops, we spent a fair amount of time on the porch before they left to head back to Brooklyn. When Elisha came down from Souix Falls, we had a number of lunch-times, and after-dinner-times out on that porch (and we may have had a number of fancy beers, too).

But most recently, we’ve had some rather unusual (and truly magical) things occur on our porch. We’ve had music. Not music from a radio, but live, spontaneous music.

It started about two weeks ago when Tami’s son Zach stopped by the house after a cello performance. Tami, Eric and I were all sitting on the porch having after-work snacks and beverages, and were generally just enjoying each other’s company and the fantastic breeze. We began asking Zach about how his performance went, what piece he had played, etc. One thing led to another, and before we knew it, Zach had his cello out and was playing a piece from that night’s concert. It was surreal. There in the dark, on a Thursday evening, we were listening to live cello music on our front porch. It was a most special thing.

So, when something similar happened again last night, I knew that it couldn’t be just a fluke. Eric and I were sitting on the porch, minding our own business when, one by one, all of the neighborhood kids ended up on the porch with us (and I do mean ALL of them…five from one house, two from another, three from another, and a couple of extras who were just visiting). There was much jumping from steps and stumps (no, the stumps haven’t been ground, yet), lots of sneaking-up-on-and-pretend-shooting, some ballet demonstrations…you get the picture…we own the pied piper of porches. Then, our neighbor Adrian, whose wife and kids I know from the library, came over to formally introduce himself to us. And when he came over, all of the adults on our end of the street migrated over as well. And Adrian’s brother Tony stopped by with his wife Andrea. And before we knew it, Tony and Adrian had started singing a song that Tony had written for Mother’s Day and had sung at church that morning. They sang it to Adrian’s wife, Jessica, since she had missed it at church. It was a lovely acapella piece, sung by two brothers who had clearly sung many songs together. Eric and I were speechless. Yet again, it was most special.

A porch is a powerful thing. Eric and I know this to be true, because we recognize that we are the owners of a mighty powerful porch. And we’ve made a solemn vow to use our porch wisely, and only for good…

Griffin & the Order of the Pop-Secret

2011-05-06T04:22:00.000-07:00

This is Griffin. No, he is not a fierce mythological creature that is made up of the foreparts of an eagle, and the hindquarters of a lion. This Griffin is the fiercely hilarious son of my friend Beth (the Beth who, along with her husband, two sons, and daughter, lost their poultry farm in the storms last week).

Griffin has a way of putting things into perspective. Here are just a few quotes out of the mouth of Griffin, posted by Beth to her Facebook wall:

“On Griffin's math test, he was to define/explain why the shape was a rectangle. His answer? ‘I say it's a rectangle because it looks like a rectangle.’”

“At church, Griffin's teacher said they were discussing the power of God and the powerful things He has created. He asked the class to give examples. Some answered: ‘hurricanes,’ ‘tornadoes.’ Griffin's response: ‘My mom.’”

And on Friday, April 29th, I received an email from Beth with numerous photos of the devastation that once was their farm. Among the photos of damage was the photo seen above, the photo of Griffin holding an unpopped, cellophane-wrapped bag of popcorn. In Beth’s message were the following sentences:
“Always have to find a smile, and having Griffin around usually brings one! At our farm he retrieved an in-tact (as he said, for emphasis) bag of Pop Secret...he was THRILLED! He also found Slade’s office TV remote nearly at the mountain, saying, ‘Dad, here's your remote,’ and then looked at me, whispering, ‘you know how grouchy he gets when he can't find it!’

I think that pretty much sums up Griffin. Fiercely hilarious...a protective salve for what ails ya.

So, mom doesn’t like being the center of attention, but I’m going to force her into the limelight for a moment. Today marks her final full week of treatment. Yep, that’s right. She’s done with everything except the last three radiation treatments. No more chemo, and after Wednesday of next week, no more radiation. I know she’s tired, and she’s a bit crispy in a very unmentionable area of her body (and probably sitting right now on the child’s blow up pool inner tube dad got her), but she has almost made it (literally and figuratively) out of the fire. This may call for a small victory dance of thankfulness sometime today. And since I’ll be working our Links for Literacy Tournament, I may have to do my dance on the 3rd hole of the golf course. Suits me just fine.

“Every moment of light and dark is a miracle.” Walt Whitman

2011-05-01T05:54:00.000-07:00

I want to take a moment to thank all of the new visitors who came here to my blog in the recent days. I know that many of you came to read my post about Mrs. Reba J. Jones of Pleasant Grove, AL. And I know that many of you have read the comments that have been exchanged in the comments section below that post. So, many of you know that Mrs. Reba did not survive Wednesday’s storm. And you know that a friend of a friend of Mrs. Reba’s Googled information about her status and stumbled upon my blog post, and that this individual then contacted Mrs. Reba’s friends to share the blog post with them. And that one of those friends of Mrs. Reba’s then left a comment for me as to what had happened to her…

Throughout Friday evening and Saturday morning, comments were exchanged between two dear friends of Mrs. Reba’s, Mrs. Reba’s youngest son, and myself. They shared with me things about this beautiful woman whose address label I discovered in our yard late Thursday afternoon. And what I discovered through their affectionate comments was this: Mrs. Reba was much loved by her friends and family; that she loved much…her family and her friends, and probably many others who came into contact with her; and that she was a devoted attendant of the Lord. My sadness at her passing is nothing compared to the sadness of her family and friends, and I respectfully send my thoughts and prayers to all who were close to Mrs. Reba. What an extraordinary thing that even in death, Mrs. Reba was able to reach out and touch other’s lives…

My humble thanks to Rhonda, Jeff and Tim for sharing their thoughtful words with me, and for sharing this marvelous and special journey. I’ll close with Psalm 91:1, which Rhonda used to close one of her comments:
Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty

Reba J. Jones of Pleasant Grove, AL

2011-04-29T04:48:00.000-07:00

Reba J. Jones, 516 7th Ave. Pleasant Grove, AL 35127. It was a mailing label that I found in amongst the roses yesterday in our backyard garden. The label was still adhered to its waxy sheet, ready to be stuck to a letter or a bill that Ms. Jones needed to get out in the mail, something she probably kept, like me, in a drawer of her desk, with her postage stamps, envelopes and her good Walmart Thank You cards. But the label was dirty and tattered, and it was about seventy miles northeast from where it should’ve been…

I recall my first experience with a tornado. I was about four or five years old; Vicki, about six or seven. The radio told us we needed to seek shelter, so mom and dad took us down into the basement to wait the storm out. It was there under the glare of the bare overhead bulb that dad described what a tornado was. He wasn’t trying to scare us, he just wanted us to know what why it was important for us to go to the basement for this storm, when we didn’t have to go to the basement for other storms. The one thing that I remember most vividly was that Dad said if you are close enough to a tornado to hear it, it will sound like a locomotive coming at you. My only experience with trains was with the toy ones that my male counterparts played with at school. So in my child’s mind, I thought it was funny to think of hearing the sound of a choo choo train during a storm.

There are only two other memories that I have of that night. 1) At one point, as I watched a small trickle of water make it’s way along the dirt floor of the basement and heard the storm grow to a fevered pitch outside, the light went out. In the dark, I heard dad say, “Here it comes.” The next memory of that night was this: 2) Emerging from the basement at the break of dawn and seeing the path the tornado took around our house. I remember holding mom’s hand while walking around the terrace, thinking the snapped pine trees looked a game of Pick-Up-Sticks that had gone awry.

Now, I’ve been through other tornadoes since then: lots here in Alabama, and a few in the other places I’ve lived. I was around for the Palm Sunday tornadoes of 1994, which devastated Calhoun and Cherokee Counties, destroying the Goshen United Methodist Church while parishioners worshipped (Rick Bragg covered the story, which can be read in his collection Somebody Told Me). I was at a Radiohead concert at Red Rocks in 2001 when a tornado formed just beyond the Rocky foothills where I sat, and made its way towards downtown Denver…towards my Capital Hill apartment. But luckily, it changed course and missed the city. I don’t get freaked out by tornadoes like some folks do, but I do respect them, and head for the basement when one is spotted in the area.

Yes, if you are close enough to a tornado to hear it, it does sound a lot like a locomotive…an angry, mean locomotive, with sharp teeth that bite and rip, and with forceful breath that picks up houses, cars and anything else in its way when it inhales, and dashes those things to the unforgiving ground when it exhales. Which is how we ended up with Reba J. Jones of Pleasant Grove, Alabama’s mailing label in our yard. Pleasant Grove, Alabama was destroyed in Wednesday night’s storms, leveled by a mile wide tornado.

After it left Pleasant Grove, the tornado tore through downtown Birmingham and made its way up to Etowah County, Calhoun County, Cherokee County. While Eric reported breaking news from the Gadsden Times building, and I sat in our basement with our basementless friends Danny and Jillian from down the street, my dear friend Beth and her husband lost their chicken houses on their poultry farm, thereby losing their livelihood. Her father-in-law lost his home and everything in it, everything except the bathroom in which he hid…

I hope Reba J. Jones had a basement in which she hid Wednesday night as the tornado raged around her. I hope that if she didn’t have her own basement to go to, then she had a neighbor who did have a basement, and that she took shelter there. And although her personal mailing label being in our yard indicates otherwise, I hope that by some chance Reba J. Jones still has a house in Pleasant Grove. I just hope that Reba J. Jones is still alive…

Sittin' in the grass, after dinner...

2011-04-27T10:25:00.000-07:00

Bisons on the lawn of the Catoe parsonage. Photo by the Dame Catoe.

With the birds I’ll share this lonely view…

2011-04-24T05:51:00.000-07:00

They came to cut the trees Friday. Had gotten a call the night before from Jake Cranford saying they could come in the morning, and could we have the cars moved? You bet! Bring it on! I was just going to nap all day and maybe read Ree Drummond’s Black Heels To Tractor Wheels. But I’ve pretty much already read Ree’s story through her blog, and who needs to nap when you can watch tree cutters cutting down hundred foot-plus pines that are growing about five feet away from your house?

There were three guys working the job: owner Jake Cranford, a fellow with a CDL who drove the trucks and held the lines, and Mike the Climber. About an hour into the job, my neighbor Joel got hired to work the lines and load lumber (he used to cut trees for a living, so he just stepped into the job like he had never stopped).

Everyone was pretty low key…except for Mike the Climber. He reminded me of Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Was Appalachian lean, with a shaved head. Looked like an Irish bare-knuckle boxer, missing his two front teeth. High strung and moved real fast, but with the grace of a mountain cat. Talked fast, too. He was out front revving up the chainsaws while the other guys were gone getting the log truck. Strange sound, chainsaws outside your window on a Good Friday morning. But you gotta have good working chainsaws when you’re a climber. And you gotta make sure they all are in working order before you get up in a tree to start cutting. Takes a special kinda person to do the climbing part of tree cutting.

Took probably six hours for them to get finished. And that’s with a very short lunch break. Jake Cranford said that it would’ve taken far less time if the trees hadn’t been so close to the house. That’s okay. It was a good show for the neighborhood. Pretty much everybody and their mother came out to watch. Jilly Jill brought out a chair to the sidewalk, and Danny Dan filmed part of the cutting for a project he was working on. Dad even came from Rainbow City…

For about five minutes that day, I felt like the Once-ler from Seuss’ The Lorax. Here I was, not treating my trees with care. I was not giving them water, nor feeding them fresh air. I was allowing my trees to be, in a literal and literary sense, hacked at with axes. But these trees needed to go. They had been tossing their pinecones to and fro. And dropping big limbs when the winds did blow. I promised that in their place one day, we would plant smaller trees under which the children could play. And there the smaller trees forever would stay…and the Barbaloots in their Barbaloot suits would once again be happy and gay! Okay, I’ll stop…

Later in the day, it got back to me that someone had asked Mike the Climber how long he had been doing this kind of work. His response was, “Oh, my first day was yesterday. But I stayed in a Holiday Inn last night…” Wiseguy.

There was a point during the job where Mike the Climber was way up in the last tree standing. He’d had to go back up to take it down a bit more so that the bucket truck could comfortably reach the tree. I was standing by Jake Cranford across the street, watching. About the time I noticed that Mike the Climber had not hooked his safety up, Jake Cranford said, “He’s not got his safety on. I better remind him.” He yelled up to Mike the Climber, who laughed, and exaggeratedly hooked up his safety, then went back to work without missing a beat. I may have remarked at this point about a certain level of certifiable-ness or thrill-seeking that I thought climbers had to have in order to work the jobs they did. Jake Cranford somewhat agreed. He said of Mike the Climber, “He’s keyed up before he starts a job…and when he’s working. Will probably get off of this job, go home and kill a six-pack just to relax....to come down. Gotta be keyed up and nervous to do what he does. A climber isn’t nervous about a job, that’s when bad things happen.” Well, that sure put it into perspective for me. And Mike the Climber was far lower-key when he was finished with the job than when he started the job. No doubt about that…

So, after the last log was loaded, and I had settled up with Jake Cranford, I fell in love with The Bungalow all over again. Slim and I sat on the front porch for awhile to celebrate the yard with no trees, and to plan the landscaping we dreamed of doing. There are still two stumps that need to be ground (the stump-grinding guy will come next week), and two big holes in the yard where logs were dropped repeatedly (we’ll fill in with the mulch from the ground stumps and then add top soil), but it sure beats having two frighteningly monstrous trees so close to the house. And, I may be imagining it, but I swear that the cross breeze on the porch is even better than it was before (and it was pretty darn good when the trees were there).

Winnie the Poops

2011-04-21T12:17:00.000-07:00

Irene Latham gave a poetry reading from her new book of poetry (The Color of Lost Rooms) Tuesday night at the GPL. I absolutely LOVE hearing Irene read, as not only does she read beautifully and sincerely, she also actively gets the audience to participate. On this visit, Irene included a slide show of images, one of which she asked us to create a group poem about. On one index card, we were asked to write down five descriptive words about the woman in the image. Next, we were to write down a happy memory from our past, a memory that was brought to mind by the image. Third, we were to write down something that we would like to happen, something again, that was connected to the image we were looking at. On the second card I wrote something like this, “When I would spend summers at my grandmother’s place in Kentucky, after dinner we would go out and sit in the grass. The grass was cool on our feet.” On the third card, I wrote something like this, “I would love to have an early summer dinner party with friends. We could eat, and then sit out in the cool summer grass.”

It just so happened that while I was in this reading with Irene, I had gotten an email from Laura Catoe entitled “Eating Outside,” and stating the following: “Yesterday, the weather was nice, so we ate dinner outside. As we got seated, Ben asked 'are Carol and Eric coming over?'"

Now, how is that for serendipity? And, how is that for sweetness?

We eat with the Catoes almost every Saturday evening. You know all about it. Dining al fresco when the weather permits. Eatin’ some food. Playin’ some bison. The usual. There are just some folks you think of when you think of dining outside. I’ve taken part in some wonderful dinners that took place outside. It is one of my favorite ways to dine. Dining outside with the Catoes always ranks as wonderful.

Eric and I have a Hollywood nickname, courtesy of Zoe. Like Brangelina and Bennifer…we are Carrot. Carol and Eric=Carrot. It totally works if you want to say our names together quickly...and especially if you are a tabloid doing a story on our glamorous 10th Street life. Zoe is not the only Catoe child calling us Carrot. Ben is calling us Carrot, too. And I suspect that when Cash collects all of his language faculties about him, he’ll call us Carrot as well. I like it. No, I love it.

Colonoscopy and endoscopy went well this morning…and I have such a clean colon now! All we have to do is wait for the biopsies of my various upper and lower bits & pieces to come back, and it is all over (Dr. Amin doesn’t expect to find anything). Slim was admittedly a bit disappointed that I wasn’t a Paper-Lace-singing, crazy-talking fool when I woke up from the anesthesia, and also that I remembered my conversations with both the nurse and Dr. Amin afterwards (because I guess normally you forget the stuff you talk about right after waking up from anesthesia)…but if it’s any consolation, he had to hold on to the back of my hoodie as I bounced out the door of the center and into the arms of ma, pa, and sister. I was a bit loopy and my feet felt HUGE (get out of my way FEET), so I kept tipping sideways.

I’ve been home since 9:30AM ish and I’ve eaten oatmeal, napped, eaten a baked potato, napped, washed dishes, inspected the roses, finished watching the Bukowski bio, eaten ice cream (cause Slim thought I deserved some tasty treats…awwwwww), and I’m thinking about another nap. I have a license to nap right now, and I’m using it to the full extent of the law. I can’t drive a car today. Because I may decide to take a nap at some point while I’m driving.

Exchange between me and E this morning:
Me: I’ve got rumblies in my tumblies…
E: Alright, Winnie the Poops…

Topeka, KS Part II, Section A

2011-04-21T02:55:00.000-07:00

Because I promised more about our day of sightseeing…

We started the day off by driving past Topeka High School, home of the Trojans. Topeka High does not look like an average high school…as a matter of fact, for some reason, Topeka High reminds me of Cornell, what with its collegiate gothic good-looks, its bell tower and its bronze Trojan statue out front. All they need is a quad with a pair of statues of the founding fathers who, as legend goes, will get up from their pedestals at midnight, walk to greet each other with a handshake, and then exchange places (which Cornell has…Arts Quad, statues of founders Ezra Cornell and Andrew Dickson White…but I think there has to be a virgin standing in the quad, too, and maybe the chimes have to be ringing, also…what are the odds of that all happening at the same time? Thus, old Ezra and Andy have never actually changed places…that we know of). But, Topeka High has something Cornell doesn’t…one of the spars from Old Ironsides. They use the spar as a flagpole.

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar;
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more. (part of Old Ironsides by Olive Wendell Holmes)

Go Trojans!

Next, we went to the Kansas state capital, which is undergoing some major renovations (much to the consternation of some government spending watchdog groups). The capital is a beautiful domed building, in the traditional domed-capital sense. And it has a lovely statue of a Native American shooting an arrow to the stars on top. But, what thrilled me to NO END about this capitol were the murals painted on the walls within…specifically, one mural in particular: John Steuart Curry's John Brown mural entitled Tragic Prelude. I grew up listening to the 70s band Kansas, especially their first, self-titled album featuring a close up of this mural on the cover (another tidbit: Kansas founder Kerry Livgren is still very active in the Topeka music scene. Lauri and George have heard him collaborate with the symphony.). To finally see this mural was incredible (Slim had mentioned a particular mural of John Brown that he wanted me to see. I had no idea that it was THE mural of John Brown. Thank you, Slim.)

A little John Brown aside: John Brown was an abolitionist. He did not believe in passive resistance. He believed in straight-up, full-contact resistance. I read somewhere that he suffered from eye inflammations…which may be why in every photograph I see of him, he has the crazy eyes. But, seriously, I don’t really think his crazy eyes came from inflammations, I think he had the crazy eyes because of all the hardship he had in his life, and because of his fiery dedication to end slavery.

See, back in the day (Civil War), pro-slavery supporters called the Border Ruffians were “willing to violate the rule of law” to turn Kansas into a slave state. Bleeding Kansas was a period of skirmishes and out-and-out bloody battles that were an attempt by the Border Ruffians to exterminate the anti-slavery contingent. From the sound of things, Brown was ticked off at both sides of the conflict: the pro-slavery folks for using such violent tactics; the anti-slavery folks for being so weak and passive in their defense. Brown, who was living in New York at the time, headed to Kansas to help out (he was not the only person who helped out the anti-slavery Kansans. Henry Ward Beecher, a preacher and abolitionist, snuck rifles to the anti-slavery settlers by hiding them in boxes of Bibles). One such skirmish was the attack on Lawrence where the pro-slavery folks destroyed the press, several homes, some people, intimidated women and children…and generally acted like dangerous fooligans. Yup, those ruffians were definitely willing to violate the rule of the law.

I think Curry’s mural depicts a rightly ticked off John Brown. He’s got a Bible in one hand, a gun in the other, and he’s mad. Clearly depicted on either side of him are the two opposing forces. There are two dead soldiers on the ground at his feet: one union, one confederate. There is a tornado tearing its way across the plains to the left, raging prairie fires to the right, which somehow makes me think that John Brown wasn’t the only one upset. Looked to me like the good Lord may have been a bit unhappy at all that foolishness, too. I’m just sayin.’

I’ve got to take a break from Part II. Today is colonoscopy/endoscopy day. I will refrain from the jokes I could crack right now. Yesterday’s prep wasn’t too bad (a nasty headache complicated things a bit. I was unable to take the meds I normally take for headaches, and was unable to keep down the meds I was able to take. At least I was eventually able to keep down the laxatives). I slept well last night, but I am so hungry, my shoes are looking edible. Slim is to have me at the center by 6:40AM, so I am only an hour or two away. I don’t know why, but I have the Paper Lace song The Night Chicago Died stuck in my head. Mix that with anesthesia, and everybody in the place is going to get a real show today. Please Lord, just help me keep my mouth shut…
In the heat of a summer night
In the land of the dollar bill…

Topeka, KS Part I

2011-04-19T04:34:00.000-07:00

Short crocus blades sheathed the purple-and-white hearts that so wished to be first they endured the chill and rain of early spring.

Toni Morrison, from The Bluest Eye

The crocuses here bloomed over a month ago. So did the violets, the irises and the wisteria. We are in full spring mode now, with hop vines taller than me; rose canes falling over from the weight of so many buds and blooms; watermelon-colored azaleas aflame; gladiolas, cannas, crocosmia lucifers all poking up or unrolling from their winter hiding places. We went away for one week. During that one week, our yard became a jungle. If I had a machete, I’d have used it to cut a path through the back yard. But we don’t have a machete. We have a reel push mower…and our hands. And I used both the reel mower and my hands last week to cut the grass. Slim broke out the weed eater last night. Some things you have to force into submission. Our back yard is one of those things…and so are the sawflies that are eating our rose bushes into skeletal remains. What is the most organic way to get rid of sawfly worms? Pick them off by hand and squish them. Which I’ve done most mornings before work. And because I would like to NOT have to spend precious moments picking sawfly worms off of roses, I neemed them, too. Neem is my best friend.

So, I mentioned that we went away for a week. Slim and I went to Topeka for his brother Steven’s wedding to the lovely McKenna Hall. Our visit was a whirlwind of nuptual merriment: brunch supplies shopping at Sam’s Club, reception room set-up, visiting the new apartment, wedding ceremony run-throughs, rehearsal dining at the Brickyard Barn Inn, photographs in Gage Park…and then, the wedding itself! Oh my, but it was a beautiful ceremony, with a delightfully sweet and funny slide show to start things off, communion with the bride and groom, and a reception of good food and jubilant dancing (with many touching toasts). The bride and groom were sent off in a literal blaze of glorious sparklers…sparklers that (for several tense moments) didn’t want to be lit.

The following day was made up of a relaxing brunch with visiting relatives, concocting embrocation with soap-lotion-lip-balm-specialist Lauri Wright, and dinning on Kansas strip steaks from a corn-finished animal of the bovine variety. All was right in the world…

Monday was spent sightseeing in Topeka (the state capital and Monroe school, where the Brown vs. the Topeka Board of Education Museum is located), Lawrence (the KU campus), and in Kansas City (the Plaza, the Nelson-Atkins Museum, Arthur Bryant’s Barbecue). I reserve the right to create a separate blog post for this day, as I am still cogitating on all of it…and may still be digesting some of the burnt ends I gobbled up at Arthur Bryant's...

Our final day in Kansas was spent sailing on Lake Perry. Lauri and George are negotiating the purchase of a new, somewhat larger sailboat, so we took Scout out for what may have been her last voyage with the Wright family. The weather was perfect for sailing…a comfortable temperature, mild winds, and lots of sunshine. Later that evening, we dined on delicate squash soup, field greens with fresh goat cheese & strawberries, sea bass (E) and scallops (me) with mashed potatoes & green beans at the quaint French restaurant, Chez Yasu. It was divine. Seriously, it was more than divine. I ate so much, I felt like a tick on a dog. Yep. That’s how I felt. And then I felt even more better (if I may mess with our language a tiny bit more) when we had crème brulee for dessert. I LOVE CRÈME BRULEE. DO YOU HEAR ME? LOVE IT! I slept like a log that night, and dreamt of jumping on a trampoline made of a giant scallop. My hair was flying high with each jump, and every time I landed, I took another bite of buttery scallop…when we got up to leave the next morning, I had leftover mashed potatoes and green beans for breakfast. Now that’s the way to end a vacation. Shazam!

Easy Breezy

2011-04-05T05:00:00.000-07:00

After a terribly busy week last week (mom’s exciting first week of chemo…the little trooper…the Three Poets Reading Thursday evening, Library of Congress truck all day Friday and the Gadsden Reads kickoff Friday evening, which consisted of a Parrothead Parade and Buffet karaoke), I was looking forward to an easy breezy week this week. That was not to be. While sitting in my digestive specialist’s (the gloriously named Dr. Vipul Thakorbhai Amin, who happens to be one of the glorious doctors responsible for saving my dad’s life a year and a half ago) office to see him about some recent even-more-shocking-er digestive issues, I received a call from my tree cutters saying that they had us on the schedule to take out our massive pines Tuesday and Wednesday. Well, when it rains, it pours…literally. We were due for some typical Southern spring weather in the form of tornadoes and straight-line winds that very evening, so I thought, “Great, you can remove the arboreal behemoths tomorrow, AFTER ONE MORE nail-biting night of storms.” Sure, I told Jake Cranford of Cranford Tree Service. I’ve got nothing better to do in the next couple of days except try to get ahead at work, exercise my body of some digestive demons, pack for a trip…you get the picture.

So, we survived severe thunderstorms last night, and today they will begin to remove the trees. Take one more look at them, cause in two days they will be gone. I am sad that I don’t get to watch the guys take them down (I had dreams at one time of being a tree cutter who specialized in climbing…those dreams lasted about five minutes when I thought about being suspended in a tree from a rope while having to wield a chainsaw). They will not be missed.

And on a side note, Dr. Vipul Thakorbhai Amin is treating me for giardia and…and…wait for it…celiac disease. He looked at my life history of digestive issues and listened to what I had been experiencing recently with the removal of gluten from my diet. The jury is still out on the blood work. And I have an endoscopy and colonoscopy scheduled for later this month. Now, if I can only get mom to quit calling the Giardia Ghirardelli. We’re blaming chemo brain (but we all know that she would still call it Ghirardelli, even if she wasn’t taking chemo right now, cause that’s the way she rolls). I WISH I had Ghirardelli…

Mom update: In my last post, I mislabeled mom’s cancer as rectal cancer. It was not rectal cancer, it was anal cancer. There is a difference between the two, and I wanted to make sure that everyone who was following her story had the right information. Mom is doing great. She’s had a little over one full week of radiation, and one full week of chemo. Her radiation guys are two terrific chaps who allowed sister and me to accompany her into the radiation chamber until it was time to zap her. They then allowed us to watch the computer that showed mom’s insides as the radiation was administered. Mom says that they usually play cool music for her when she’s in there. The Beatles. And now Creedance, cause mom brought a disc from home and left it with them. They are good guys who are taking great care of my mom. Chemo took place last week with an hour-long drip of mitomycin, and then a week-long hook-up to her port of 5FU. She was unhooked on Friday. She will get another drip of mitomycin and another week-long hook-up of 5FU the last week of radiation. Right now, she is unhooked. And she’s off the charts in my book ‘cause she’s doing so well. So far, the only side effects have been a daily tiredness and some relatively minor bowel issues. She works a half-day everyday, going in after her morning treatments. Her attitude is as it always has been, one of greeting each new day with thankfulness and humor. Which is why she’ll go in this morning and tell her radiation techs that her daughter has a bad case of Ghirardelli…

Tree update: Just talked with Cranford Tree Service. They couldn't get out today because of the storm damage last night. Too many folks with trees down on their houses. That's okay by me. There are other folks who need tree cutters more than we do right now. And the wait continues...

Everything Happens for a Reason

2011-03-11T08:29:00.000-08:00

I was raised with the belief that everything happens for a reason. That no matter how bad a situation seems there will be something good that comes of it. Now, I know not everyone feels this way, but that’s just how my family operates.

So, having said this, I’ve got to fill some folks in on something important that’s been going on ‘round here, something that has changed the lives of my family members and our friends. In January, during a routine colonoscopy for zapping polyps, the doctor discovered that mom had a mass in her rectum. It was, he was certain, cancer. With this news, we did what we always do as a family, circled the wagons and made a game plan which included great team of doctors. The decision was made to have the mass removed without taking any of the lymph nodes (to avoid the whole colostomy bag thing unless it was absolutely necessary), and to send mom in for six weeks of chemoradiation. The chemo will come in the form of a chemo fanny pack (she’ll look like an 80s American tourist in Europe) that will get hooked up on Mondays when she goes in for her radiation and unhooked on Fridays (so she can PAR-TAY all weekend). The chemo is a low dose treatment that has very few side effects and is complimentary to the radiation.

An aside: Mom’s surgeon is Lucian Newman, III. He is a young doctor from a long line of doctors, and he performed mom’s lumpectomy over seventeen years ago as well as my sister’s mastectomy over five years ago. Three, as we call him, is a towering, strapping surgeon who loves to snow ski, golf and hunt. He is also missing one arm, which he lost in a hunting accident several years ago. So, he doesn’t really give you the chance to ever feel sorry for yourself ‘cause he’s just so full of self-confidence and so darn sure that whatever it is you’ve got, he can take it out and leave you better for it. He always shoots it straight, giving you worst and best case scenarios so that you won’t be surprised either way, and he makes you feel like you WILL be fine (you just may feel like hell a bit while you heal). We pretty much like everything about him…

So Three removed mom’s mass a little over a month ago. She did great during and after the surgery, only having to spend one night in the hospital. She was doing so well, she started trying to do too much and ended up NOT feeling so great for a couple of days. After the first post-op meeting with Three (about a week after the surgery), mom was able to get into a routine of butt-care-best-practices, and she’s improved drastically ever since. At the second post-op meeting, Three told us that Mom’s margins were clear from the surgery, and that she retained great rectal function, so he granted her a reprieve from the chemoradiation treatments until after she had healed a bit more. We will meet with him again next week to make the final plans…in the meantime, butt jokes are de rigueur…

Something great that has come out of this (besides the obvious fact that mom is doing well): Mom and dad have gotten real interested in the food they eat, specifically in the fiber they consume. They have been taking recommendations from me and Vicki, adding more fruits, vegetables and whole grains to their diet. And I’ve been adding additional whole grains to my diet as well, which has let to me feeling, well, pretty darn awful. I've had stomach trouble since I was a child, and was diagnosed with IBS years ago when I lived in Denver, so I’ve always been careful about what I eat. But I can’t recall a time in my life when I’ve ever experienced the things that I’ve been experiencing lately (out of modesty, and out of fear of sharing too much information, I will spare you all the details). So, I’ve been keeping track of what I eat, what symptoms I have, and when those symptoms crop up…and I suspect that I have a gluten intolerance. After feeling like hammered dog poo all day Wednesday at work (and eating my usual granola breakfast, hummus with pita chips lunch, guacamole on fiber bar dinner), and almost not making it to Ash Wednesday services at the church because I thought my stomach was going to explode, and fearing that once I got to church, that I was going to have to dash away from the prayer bench while knocking clergy and congregants out of the way so that I could get to the bathroom during services, I decided to take matters into my own hands and have a gluten-free Thursday to see if there was ANY relationship between whole grain goodness and hammered dog poo (or feeling like hammered dog poo).

If you don’t want to read a mundane passage about what I ate yesterday, then you may want to just skip to the next paragraph…Yesterday, I ate oatmeal for breakfast. I had a grilled chicken salad on a bed of field greens for lunch. I ate some cashews from the vending machine for onesies (which is very much like the hobbit snack time elevensies. Sister and I believe in elevensies, twelvsies, onesies, twosies...you get the picture. We like snack time, so we'll turn whatever time we need a snack into snack time). And I had great northern beans with tuna and rosemary for dinner. I didn’t eat anything at the Red Cross benefit concert last night at Blackstone because they didn’t have anything on the menu that was gluten-free. I did, however, watch Brandy, Dave and Slim eat some of that decadent white cheese dip with chips and toasted bread (I was salivating like Niagra Falls the whole time, but I was fine…really I was FINE). And I felt fine all day yesterday.

So, this morning I feel more energetic than yesterday (really, I feel more energetic than I have in awhile). I ate oatmeal again for breakfast (a double serving because I got so hungry yesterday). I am planning on eating another chicken salad on field greens again for lunch. And I’ll eat something non-gluten-y for dinner. I am going to continue my gluten-free crusade to see if I continue to feel better. And I am going to Apple-A-Day today to buy some almond flour so that Slim can make pizza dough for Saturday Night Supper Club at the Catoes (or what I am going to start calling Saturday Night Bison Hunt with a Leap of Leopards)…pizza dough that I can eat without blowing my whole food experiment. To be continued…

A Brief From My Girlhood

2011-03-07T06:40:00.000-08:00

Poetry reading at the ‘brary a couple of weeks ago went really well. The poet, Lightsey Darst, was in the area (from Minnesota) to visit friends of hers who now live in Anniston. Lightsey is a dancer, dance critic, English instructor, and poet. Her first book of poetry, Find the Girl (Coffee House Press), is “A poetic expose of girlhood, obsession, and the CSI industry.” I was very intrigued by this description, and by the cover of the book, which is a grainy photo of caution/crime scene tape. It is a book worth owning, and Lightsey is a poet worth keeping an eye on. She is experimental, and quite fearless. Her reading had a performance art feel to it, and reminded me very much of one of the Merce Cunningham dance pieces (the one choreographed to John Cage’s music) Eric and I saw performed in January. I mentioned thinking this to her and she told me of the time she interviewed Merce Cunningham. She also spoke of the time she saw two of Merce Cunningham’s dancers perform to poetry being read by Anne Carson. How amazing would that be to dance to poetry?

In the meantime, I am prepping for my adult summer dance class here at the GPL. I’ve decided to focus less on traditional ballet (that worked well last summer), and more on world dance. In addition to ballet, we will be covering modern Indian/Hindi dance (Bollywood), Egyptian belly dancing, the Spanish paso doble & flamenco, and Chinese Tai Chi. I am no expert at any of these dances, but I find all of these genres to be very fascinating and beautiful…and I’ve dabbled in them enough to teach and have fun with beginner students. The goal of each class is to learn something new about different forms of dance, to celebrate our differences, and to laugh as much as possible! Life is too short to sweat the small stuff!

Speaking of not sweating the small stuff, I had an interesting conversation with my boss and a coworker last week about just that. In a somewhat circuitous way, we began talking about the mentality of “if I can’t do it right, then I’m just not going to do it.” All three of us are reasonably intelligent people, and all three of us are perfectionists to a certain degree. But clearly, my coworker and my boss are perfectionists in a far different way than I. They do things that they know they can do well, and don’t do things that they don’t do well. They admitted to trying new things that they think they would like to do (painting, sewing, cooking), but when they discover that they are unable to do those things to their perceived standard, they tend to not pursue learning how to do better the thing that they want to do so that they will eventually learn how to do it to their perceived standard. I, on the other hand, do lots of things that I love to do (dance, sew, paint, landscape, cook, write), but that I probably don’t do to perfection. I do get frustrated when I hem a pair of pants wrong (sorry mom), or make a really unpalatable biscuit (sorry Slim, Laura and Kris). But I was encouraged by my mom and dad as a child to not give up when I made mistakes, to keep trying until I learned how to do things right.

My parents’ house is littered with evidence to their crusade to keep me trying. The letter of encouragement that my dad wrote to me on a sheet of my brown tablet paper when I was probably in kindergarten, stating something to the effect that we all have to learn to read and write, how else could he be writing me this letter, and how else could my sister be reading it to me right now. The really bad oil painting I did of a wide-eyed owl perched on a dead branch, in the dead of winter, in the dead of night that my mom STILL insists on leaving hang on the wall behind my dad’s recliner (I had a blue period where I was very prolific in the painting world…of my mind…more on that later)…photos of me as a pudgy child in a purple tutu with a hideous purple bonnet on my head (in an effort to help me build self-confidence and lose weight, my mom enrolled me in dance classes at the age of six…I LOVED dance classes so much that I stuck with it for fourteen years, and even taught dance for many of those years). All of these things (painting, dance, writing, reading) were things that I did not do very well at all when I first started doing them. But my parents always believed in me, and ALWAYS made me feel like my mistakes weren’t really mistakes...they were just signs that I was learning, and that I would get better if I kept at it. It also didn’t hurt that my parents always offered to patronize our hobbies when my sister and I initially embarked upon one. Like the de Medici’s with Michaelangelo, my parents offered to keep me in painting supplies if I would just keep painting. They did the same thing with my dance classes (new point shoes, tights, and costumes whenever I needed them, just KEEP DANCING), with my sewing (any material, buttons, ribbons to help me come one step closer to my dream of winning a 4H first place ribbon…I never came close, not even with my stunning nod to the Kennedy’s of Hyannis Port’s pleated-front Kelly green pants with a baby pink jacket that buttoned up the front with little green alligator buttons), and with my reading (allowing me to read authors and books that my friends were not allowed to read at such a young age…Stephen King, Anne Rice, the occasional bodice-ripper). I learned to learn from my parents. And although I don’t feel like I do any one thing exceptionally well, I enjoy doing the things that I do.

While consolidating the house office the other evening, I found my old mini Boston stapler. This was the stapler I used to staple receipts from the painting sales I made at the art gallery I owned as a child. The gallery was actually our abandoned chicken coop off of the garage, so it wasn’t really mine, but my parents turned it over to me for the sake of my art. I spent many a hot summer’s day with shovel, rake, hammer and nail to make the place opening-night-ready. It didn’t matter that the only guests at the gallery opening were my mom, dad and sister…

In case you haven't read it, here is my Goodreads book review of Lightsey's Find the Girl:
Girls, Girls, Girls. Girls as flowers, blooming into womanhood. Girls as fruits, ripening for consumption. Girls as precious artifacts, waiting impatiently underfoot for someone to discover them, to rescue them, even if it is only their remains that are rescued. Find the Girl, the debut book of poetry by Lightsey Darst, reminds us of our lost girls; the girl who ran away, forever disappearing with her red lips, swinging braids and lunchbox. Or the girl who was taken, snatched by a predator who loved and dreamed her best. Find the Girl…the girl’s name is familiar from our childhood story books, our newspaper headlines, our high school history lectures: Gretel, Helen of Troy, Snow White, JonBenet, Yde Girl, and the Greek Koré. The more venerable girls, beribboned and red fruits to be opened by the Ripper’s knife, go by the names Mary, Annie, Liz, Kate, and Mary.

Lightsy’s poems, tucked behind the caution tape, are cautionary (“we escape someone doesn’t/ life for ours”), and remind us of girlhood fears still fresh in our memories (“what’s the worst that can happen”). The final and lasting words of the girl that didn’t get away: “I wish the earth bare myself a throat & nails only so that/ you might hear this, I might dig myself screaming/ free from the moss and the grapevine over me & my call/yes heard though miles away & through a young girl’s fever dream.”

With a View

2011-02-26T06:45:00.000-08:00

Although I’m certain that this winter has been no longer than any other winter, it has seemed to drag on FOREVER. We’ve had an unusual amount of snow this year, and we’ve had stretches of very cold weather, both of which have kept most of the neighborhood kids indoors for a good part of the season. This has made for ambushes on the semi-warm days. Small squadrons of toy-gun wielding commandos who, at the slightest smell of baking cookies, will drop from the trees, come stumbling from behind the barricades (parked cars), or crawl up from the sewers for much needed rations. The day I baked for the annual holiday cookie swap, I decided to see if the urban troops were doing okay (this after listening to their yelling and tumbling and fake fire-fighting outside the kitchen window). The minute I stepped out onto the porch, Jace and Jesse stopped mid-attack to say hello (they are polite young men). I asked if they were doing okay (they were), and they asked if I wanted to come out and play. Because they are seriously just that polite. And they don’t believe in ageism when it comes to play. I politely declined their offer, begging off to bake. “What are you baking?” they asked. “Cookies for a cookie swap.” Jesse: “Oooo, my mom is coming to that swap!” “Well, I guess I’ll see her there. You guys want some cookies? Ya know, for tackling feul?” Their eyes lit up. Yes, they would like some cookies. What kind of stupid question is that. So, I went in and grabbed three gift bags of cookies, one for each of them, and one for Jace’s sister who wasn’t feeling well and had to stay in for the day. With a mouth full of cookie, Jace promised delivery of Memphis’ cookies. I know that he kept his promise because now, whenever Memphis knocks on our door for a band aid to cover a scraped knee or pinched finger, she also asks if we have any cookies…

The weather is just about perfect right now. Temperatures have been in the upper 60s/low 70s during the day, and the nights are quite cool. It is perfect weather for yard work, dining on the front porch, and taking strolls in the adjacent historic district. This will be our first full spring in The Bungalow (we moved in March of last year). The birds sing every morning. Unidentified spring blooming plants are busting their way through the soil (I am watching them very carefully so that I can identify them and record their names and locations for next year). I’ve worked on the back flower garden all winter (with Slim’s help), and everything I’ve transplanted or salvaged from other people’s yards seem to have survived (and even thrived). We have irises, roses and cannas from mom and dad’s place; more cannas from Douglas’ rubbish pile; cosmos and a small hydrangea from one of mom’s coworkers; red velvet yarrow & Russian sage from the seventy-five cent sale at Lowes; a blue fescue and several unusual irises (one black, one red, one yellow) from the Finlayson’s landscaping company in Southside; and a bunch of stuff that I’ve transplanted from other parts of the yard. I’ve just ordered some red sedum for the rocky part of the yard, some flowering thyme for erosion control around the pavers, a climbing blue rose (in memory of my gran and my uncle), and…wait for it…ten Crocosmia Lucifer bulbs. I’ve wanted Crocosmia Lucifer since I seeing a picture of them in a friend’s Facebook album. They will be magnificent...I may try to plant them en masse over Fancy’s grave (Miss Mildred’s beloved cat). Yes, I did locate her approximate burial site. And no, I did not disturb her resting place too much. I just uncovered the pieces of marble that covered her grave so that they could be part of the walking path through the garden (a walking path made of pieces of marble collected from all over the property…haven’t figure out why there are so many pieces of marble lying about). The path is in the shape of a question mark. Because of the great Why in the universe (a nod to George Emerson of Forster’s Room With A View).

All of our baby trees survived the winter, too. So, once we have the giant pines removed, we may plant either a crab apple tree or a Washington Hawthorne in the front. Both bear fruit or berries that birds find yummy. And we want to encourage the birds to stop by our place because we have lots of bugs. Why just yesterday, Slim and I were both attacked by swarms of gnats outside our front door…and in a couple of months we’ll have the plague of devil grasshoppers that thrive around here. I’m not looking forward to their return. They were bad.

The days are getting longer, which means that there is still enough daylight after work to get out and spread top soil, or lay stepping stones, or rake up mulch…Most nights, if you stand at our back windows overlooking the flower garden, you can witness a lovely occurrance. Through the trees of the woods, the western sky is visible. And although you cannot see the actual sun setting, you can see the spectacular colors that result from its descent. It can be startling and breathtaking, making us stop whatever it is we are doing at the time so that we can stand and watch it.

Listening to: Arcade Fire & Radiohead

Merce Cunningham Dance Company: Or Another Reason To Pee My Pants

2011-02-02T08:35:00.000-08:00

On January 20th I received an email from the Alabama Ballet. I usually only open emails from Alabama Ballet a few times a year (November, when they are gearing up for their December Nutcracker performances, and whenever I see that they are performing the work of a favorite choreographer…Balanchine, Tharp, Graham, etc.). The subject of this particular email was “A Special Offer on a Not-To-Miss Performance.” Normally I wouldn’t open such a non-specifically subjected email, but I did. And I must say that I am glad that I did. Contained therein was the following message:

“The Alabama Dance Council makes dance history by presenting Merce Cunningham Dance Company (MCDC) at the 2011 Alabama Dance Festival.

Co-presented by the Alabama Dance Council and the Alabama Ballet, Merce Cunningham Dance Company’s residency is part of the company's final Legacy Tour and their first and only performance in Alabama. It is the last opportunity to see Merce Cunningham’s work performed by the dancers he personally trained.

Guided by Merce Cunningham’s radical approach to space, time and technology, the Company has forged a distinctive style, reflecting Cunningham’s technique and illuminating the near limitless possibility for human movement. For more than fifty years, MCDC’s collaborations with groundbreaking artists from all disciplines have redefined the way audiences experience the visual and performing arts.”

The email ended with the urgent, “Don't miss out on dance history in the making!”

Merce Cunningham Dance Company, I pondered…THE Merce Cunningham Dance Company (my brain screamed)?!? I found that I suddenly couldn’t breathe. My stomach was in knots. I wanted tickets. I wanted tickets right then. I wanted tickets right then, before they sold out (because I knew that all of the Merce Cunningham fans in Alabama, Mississippi, Georgia and Tennessee would unite together into an impenetrable ticket-buying force that would prevent me from having what was rightly mine)! But the performance was on the Friday night before the Bamacross Gadsden weekend. Slim and I were going to be terribly busy that weekend (and unbeknownst to us, we would have other, more important fish to fry the week of the performance when a health issue cropped up unexpectedly within the family nucleus). Could we possibly swing a trip to Birmingham to see one of the last performances of a dance company whose founder was one of my all-time-favorite modern choreographers? Of that, I was not sure.

I hurriedly forwarded the Alabama Ballet email to Eric with a personal message:
EEEEEEKKKKKK! Please tell me we don't have anything planned that night!
Eric: I don't think we have anything.
Me: OMG! I'm going to check on the price of tickets. I may pee on myself before I am able to though...
Eric: If tickets aren't ridiculous I'll help pay. Actually even if there are...(awww…isn’t that sweet of him?)

At this point, I was already online, pricing out the tickets, and checking the seating that was still available. I began to G-chat Eric while I was checking out the tickets so that I could communicate faster with him. I began furiously entering all of my credit card information, billing information, favorite foods and colors…everything they asked! I typed information as if my life depended upon it! And, as I typed, I kept hearing the bong of the G-chat doorbell, indicating that Eric was trying to reach me…I thought my heart was going to explode…but not before I peed on myself. And then, we had tickets! Orchestra seating, on the floor. And they had only cost $16 each. I was shaking, I was so excited. I, for one, was NOT going to miss out on dance history in the making! And, by gosh, neither was Eric!

Now, let me take a moment to fill you in on Merce Cunningham, should you need some filling in (my explanation is not academic in the least…it is merely information that I have stored away about an individual whom I have admired over the years). Merce Cunningham was a very unique pioneer in modern American dance/choreography whose fruitful and long-lived career was made even more interesting by his domestic/professional partnership with equally unique American composer John Cage. Cunningham’s choreography was, in addition to many things, an experiment in absence and presence; Cage’s music was an experiment in the “activity of sound,” the releasing of sound…from just about anything (I know a muralist who played a trashcan lid for one of Cage’s recordings). Cunningham and Cage often created their collaborative works independent of one another, with Cunningham creating choreography for Cage’s compositions without hearing Cage’s music. It worked. I know it worked, because I saw a perfect example of their collaboration Friday night…Xover.

Xover was performed by approximately fifteen people: eleven dancers, one singer (positioned on a side arm of the stage), and three musicians (in the orchestra pit). Cage’s composition (Fontana Mix with Aria) was performed via computers by the three musicians (one who could have been Merce Cunningham’s twin brother, if he’d had a twin brother), and vocally by the rather operatic chanteuse Aurora Josephson. It is difficult to describe the music, as it really needs to be experienced in order to get the full effect…Ms. Josephson sang the Aria, the musicians played the Fontana Mix through their computers, and the dancers athletically danced. At times, Ms. Josephson would create additional percussion through the gargling of water, the winding and springing of a jack-in-the-box, and the ringing of a bicycle bell. The music and the choreography meshed; concurrently, the music and the choreography stood apart. Moments of silence were filled with perfectly performed dance sequences. The silence was part of the music. It was Cunningham and Cage in its purest form.

The second performance was a more traditional modern dance piece called Crises. Crises was performed to Nancarrow’s Rhythm Studies for Player Piano (various numbers), and had a bit of a rag-time feel to it. It was an interesting piece, accessorized by fog/smoke, with dancers who made me think of flames that were attracting each other. I had to look the piece up on the Merce Cunningham Dance Company’s website because I was afraid that I totally missed any meaning. Crises is described as a “dramatic… dance concerned with decisive moments in the relationship between a man and four women.” Hmmm…I suppose I wasn’t completely off the mark by thinking that the dancers were flames attracting each other…

Dance history in the making. That’s exactly what it was. When I read of Merce Cunningham’s passing in the July 27, 2009 edition of the New York Times I lamented the loss of such a great dancer and choreographer. I felt robbed of ever having the chance to see his work. I briefly lectured on his work last summer during my Ballet for the Uncoordinated class, explaining his importance to the world of dance, and his avant-garde style. I even mentioned that his and Cage’s collaborations were often parodied when people went to the trouble to parody modern dance. Then I went on to explain to my students that Mr. Cunningham had left specific orders upon his death that his dance company dissolve, yet I had heard word of a few Central Park performances (a friend and poet who lives in Brooklyn happened upon one of the performances on a beautiful afternoon). I never dreamed that a tribute tour would come to Alabama. Good and unexpected things happen…sometimes disguised in the form of an unspecific subject line of an email.

Listening to: Blind Pilot & Radiohead. I think a Merce Cunningham/Radiohead collaboration would’ve been pretty darn awesome.

Winter's Bone by Daniel Woodrell

2011-01-21T10:07:00.000-08:00

Oh, my. If you have never read anything authored by Daniel Woodrell and you are planning to start with his latest novel Winter’s Bone, you’d just best go ahead and brace yourself. As chilling as the wintery Appalachian landscape in which Woodrell’s characters live (and, in some cases, die), Winter’s Bone is the dark, poetic tale of sixteen-year old Ree Dolly. She’s looking for her daddy, Jessup Dolly, a known meth cook who has disappeared, leaving her as the sole caregiver to her mentally ill mother and two younger brothers. He has also signed over all of their property, house included, in order to post bond on his most recent arrest. If Jessup doesn’t show up for his looming court date, everything will be lost. The only people who can help Ree locate Jessup are her kinfolk…and they’re NOT talking. Woodrell uses his words sparingly; carefully and brutally telling Ree’s story. Every word of this novel is important. Don’t skip a single one.

What speaks to me the most about Woodrell’s work is his precise description of the poor Appalachian inhabitants of Ree’s community (most of whom she is in some way kin). Having spent most of my adolescent summers and Thanksgivings at my grandmother’s house in rural Kentucky, I recognize the truth in Woodrell’s words. Familiar are the close shacks, or trailers pulled up next to trailers, families living up under each other. Familiar are the fresh animal carcasses hanging from trees and porches, a different kind of strange fruit. Familiar is the justice effected by members of the community, not by the law. Living in rural Appalachia leaves its mark on a person. Ree best describes some of the most visible marks. “With her eyes closed she could call them near, see those olden Dolly kin who had so many bones that broke, broke and mended, broke and mended wrong, so they limped through life on the bad-mended bones for year upon year until falling dead in a single evening from something that sounded wet in the lungs. The men came to mind as mostly idle between nights of running wild or time in the pen, cooking moon and gathering around the spout, with ears chewed, fingers chopped, arms shot away, and no apologies grunted ever. The women came to mind bigger, closer, with their lonely eyes and homely yellow teeth, mouths clamped against smiles, working in the hot fields from can to can’t, hands tattered rough as dry cobs, lips cracked all winter, a white dress for marrying, a black dress for burying, and Ree nodded yup. Yup” (Woodrell, Winter’s, pg. 28&29).

Everything foreshadows the danger and brutality Woodrell’s characters face daily. “The sky lay dark and low so a hawk circling overhead floated in and out of clouds. The wind heaved and knocked the hood from her head. That hawk was riding the heaving wind looking to kill something. Looking to snatch something, rip it bloody, chew the tasty parts, let the bones drop” (Woodrell, Winter’s, pg. 29).

Especially compelling is Ree’s baby brother Harold, who is tender, even as Ree tries to teach him how live in their merciless environment. Harold wants to set food out for the coyotes because they “look like dogs” and “they’re hungry.” Impatiently Ree responds, “’Settin’ out food’ll draw ‘em close-that’s likely how they’ll come too close and get shot, Harold. Don’t set no goddam food out. It looks like you’re doin’ nice, but you ain’t. You’re just bringin’ ‘em into range, is all.’” Harold still pleads, “But you can hear how hungry they are” (Woodrell, Winter’s, pg. 46). Hungry sounds the same, whether the sound comes from child or animal. Harold painfully recognizes the sound of hungry because he’s been hungry himself. In another moment when Ree is teaching the boys to shoot squirrels, Harold has shot one in the hind quarters without killing it, and the animal is writhing in the snow. Ree instructs Harold to “’notch his head ‘tween two fingers’n pull-like with a chicken.’” Harold cries, “He’s callin’ for his momma!” (Woodrell, Winter’s, pg. 103).

I could keep on with this review, but that would keep you from going out and getting a copy of this book to read, because everyone should read this book. Now, go on out and get it.

Redux: Parts of the Living Room & Dining Room

2010-12-01T03:30:00.000-08:00

Just realized that I have not posted any of the before/during/after photos of working on The Bungalow. Since Slim and I have basically worked in every room, nook and cranny, there are lots of photos, inside and out. In order to not overwhelm my devoted readers (all tens of you), I will try to post room by room...starting with the living room.

This is what it looked like when I decided to purchase the house:

This is what it looked like after we had ripped up and removed all the carpet and had started priming the walls (a blooming mess):

And now:

(We have a book problem...anyone can see that. And that's just the fiction that will fit on the shelves. Nonfiction and poetry have their own places in the house...)

Things are nowhere near completion (boxes still seem to appear out of nowhere; we still have to stain, paint and recover furniture; the baseboards need to be lowered, shoe molding added...you know, the usual stuff). But it is a start.

Cyclocross Holy Trinity

2010-11-07T06:07:00.000-08:00

We’ve had three Bamacross races so far this year. And at all three of these races we’ve met some really incredible athletes, and some really incredible supporters. See, it is usually the same people at all of the races, so you get used to setting up your “camp” area next to the same folks each week, and you know who’s competing in which category, and you know who to listen to for interesting cyclocross insults to shout in order to spur your rider on, and which children belong to which rider (and who to return them to, should they wander off). I’ve been lucky enough to be able to accompany Slim to all of these races, and we’ve made a point to try to make our race days as comfortable as possible with food and drink and small creature comforts to share with our friends. It has been great fun, and in a strange way I feel a bit maternal towards all these hardworking folk. After all, I can feed these people who are wonderfully hungry from their races, but not have to worry about finding a way to pay for them to go to college…

Today is the fourth race in the Bamacross series. It is at Sloss Furnace. This is the race at which Slim broke his wrist while warming up last year. It is a race that he is most determined to ride in. We’ve had a very busy week, what with ballet/yoga on Monday, voting and late working for Slim on Tuesday, Chairman’s Club Dinner Thursday, Slim’s auto tire shenanigans and late working on Friday, amazing Center for the Book/Book Arts in Tuscaloosa Saturday, and Alabama Ballet at Wallace Hall tonight. Slim has not had a day off this week, so he’s tired and a bit under the weather because I think I’ve given him my cold. And because I have so much to do to prepare for next week, and for the ballet tonight (it will take an act of God or congress to beautify my runny-eye-and-nosed mug), I am staying home. So, Slim is on the road to Sloss, to face his demons alone. Before he left, he touched the Richard Sachs broadside, the Jens Voigt broadside and the home altar. Oh, my. It’s like some cyclocross Holy Trinity…shall we pray? Yes, we shall.

To be continued…

Because they care...

2010-10-22T06:00:00.000-07:00

I am now the proud owner of a Twin Six Fat Cyclist cycling jersey. AND it IS the proper size. It was almost NOT the proper size. Because sometimes I'm vain and think I'm smaller than I really am, and order too small of a size in garments. Which is what I did in the case of my pre-order/special-order-only 2010 Fat Cyclist jersey. I realized my mistake after I had already placed my pre/special order, and I emailed the guys at Twin Six Alternative Cycling Apparel in the hopes that they would take pity on me for a narcissitic (and possibly alcohol related) miscalculation on my part. They did. Because they are a fabulous company, and they know what customer service is. I highly recommend Twin Six for all your alternative cycling apparel needs.

For anyone who is interested, here is the exchange between me and Twin Six:

Greetings!
First, I want to thank all four of you folks who are the brains and brawn behind T6. Second, I want to thank you for the fantastic new jersey that I just received today (The Dotty, Half-Price Humpday). It is the first item that I have ever received from T6, and not only do I find the quality, fit and design to be top shelf, but I am also thrilled to find that the dots on The Dotty are not actual dots (which I was perfectly fine with), but skulls! I am new at cycling, am 5'1", and my road bike is one step above child-sized, therefore I do not have an intimidating road presence. Having found myself very concerned about the lack of stylish yet intimidating cycling jerseys for women, I am more than pleased that my The Dotty has skulls on it. Thank you very much for thinking of such important details as quality, fit, design and intimidation in your products.

Now, I mentioned that The Dotty was the first item that I have ever received from T6, but it is not my first purchase. On July 18th I pre-ordered my first jersey ever in the history of my ordering jerseys, the women's Fat Cyclist jersey, because my boyfriend and I are rather devoted followers of Fatty's blog. In the excitement of pre-ordering my Fat Cyclist jersey (or possibly because of the Gonzo Imperial Porter I was sipping on at the time), I accidentally ordered a small instead of a medium. Now, I know that it may be too late to change the size on my order, but I'm just taking the chance to inquire because I want to maximize my sexiness (and self-deprecation) by wearing a jersey that fits me. If it is too late to change the size of my jersey order from a small to a medium, then I will live with the consequences (and go on a fruit and water diet).

Many thanks and regards,
Carol

To which Michael Fischer responded:

Carol,
Glad to have you as a fan! The Dotty is a fun kit. I'll make a note on
your order that you'd prefer a medium. Our order was placed based on what
all of you Fatty fans told us, so no promises, but I imagine we'll be able
to make the change.
Thanks,
Michael

I *heart* Twin Six...

Danse Macabre

2010-10-20T12:12:00.000-07:00

Caveat: I am in no way responsible for the songs contained herein getting stuck in your brain. Enter at your own risk.

It all started this morning with the very catchy Grieg song In the Hall of the Mountain King. You see, it was in my head. And I couldn’t get it out of my head. Even Slim playing Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries at full tilt couldn’t dislodge it from the record player in my brain that was playing it over. I posted my conundrum to my Facebook profile and about two hours later found a response left by the lovely and talented ballet mistress Linze McRae. Her suggestion, “Add a little of Saint-Saens Danse Macabre and you'll be on your way!” Hmmm…although the name was terribly familiar, I couldn’t recall the melody (probably because In the Hall of the Mountain King was still stomping and stomping away in my attic). So I looked it up, and was delighted to find that Linze’s recommendation of Danse Macabre jarred all thoughts of Mountain King out of my head. And the Henri Cazalis poem upon which the Saint-Saens piece was based is just as delightful! Now, I have a rapidly swirling and crashing waltz stewing in my thoughts:

Zig, zig, zig, Death in cadence,
Striking with his heel a tomb,
Death at midnight plays a dance-tune,
Zig, zig, zig, on his violin.
The winter wind blows and the night is dark;
Moans are heard in the linden-trees.
Through the gloom, white skeletons pass,
Running and leaping in their shrouds.
Zig, zig, zig, each one is frisking.
The bones of the dancers are heard to crack-
But hist! of a sudden they quit the round,
They push forward, they fly; the cock has crowed.

Dance macabre (Dance of Death) by Henri Cazalis

Perfect for Halloween!

Looking Under My Boot-soles

2010-10-12T13:33:00.000-07:00

Saw John’s mom in the library today. She told me that John’s killer only served a year and a day for what he did to John. People have served more time bringing chewing gum into Singapore than John’s killer served for shooting him with a crossbow. She told me about the letter that she wrote to the killer and to the judge, the letter that she read aloud that day of sentencing. There probably wasn’t a dry eye in the courtroom. I told her of the passage I had written about John only hours after she had told me of his death. It was a journal entry that I wrote while terribly upset, a journal entry that I had been unable to share with her these last two years because…well, I was afraid to. After all, he meant more to her than I’ll ever know…more than anyone will ever know. I finally printed a copy of the journal entry, along with Song 52 of Song of Myself from Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, and gave it to her. I put it in an envelope and asked her to read it at home. I couldn’t read it again. I don’t have to read it again…

Southern Vernacular

2010-10-12T08:34:00.000-07:00

Having a book discussion here at the 'brary today. It is part of our Lunch 'n Learn series, as well as part of our Gadsden Reads. Boss Lady and I are leading a discussion called Ava’s Grandson: The Works of Rick Bragg. Since I had tried to write down all of the Southernisms Rick used in all three books, I thought it would be fun to have a Southern vernacular vocabulary discussion to break the ice at the beginning of the talk. I am proud to say that I have, at one time or another (and with complete sincerety), used all of these words and phrases.

Vocabulary Words:
Kilt
Throwed
Purty
Hongry
Disremember
Ort
Tater
Skeeters
Likker
D’rectly
Holt
Fat pine
Loafered
Ha’nts
Woolyboogers
Sammich
Commodity
Puny

Phrases:
Done eat…
Got run off…
Blind as a concrete block…
These got to do me…
Prayed into heaven…
A little piece off (just a little piece down the road)…
Be back d’rectly…

It is nice to see these words and phrases printed in New York Times best selling books. It lends them a legitimacy that they are not often afforded...

Quiet and Poetic Prose

2010-10-08T12:39:00.000-07:00

I’ve been rereading some of Rick Bragg’s books lately because my boss lady and I are going to lead a discussion next week about his three most beloved titles: All Over But the Shoutin,’ Ava’s Man, and Prince of Frogtown.

Just finished off Ava’s Man last night for the second time. Near the end of the story, when Charlie’s death is within a stone’s throw of being upon him, Rick gives us an account of his grandfather’s last moments. They are moments that are beautifully recounted:

It was a fine walk. The trees and shrubs and crawling vines were in flower or already green, covering the gray bark that always looked so dead and hopeless in winter, and new grass covered a cow pasture not far from the house. Later, the night train would rumble across the Tredegar trestle, shaking the trees, stabbing the darkness with a lance of yellow light, but now there was just the dying sunlight, and the wind, rushing.

The men were passing a pasture gate when he just stopped, to get a breath. He looked around him, as if it was the first time he had seen anything like it, anything so fine, and fell onto the new grass.

I found the words so lovely, and so reminiscent of another favorite passage of mine, the closing of Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front:

He fell in October 1918, on a day that was so quiet and still on the whole front, that the army report confined itself to the single sentence: All quiet on the Western Front.

He had fallen forward and lay on the earth as though sleeping. Turning him over one saw that he could not have suffered long; his face had an expression of calm, as though almost glad the end had come.

If you read Bragg’s and Remarque’s passages together, you can almost envision them written for the same man.

One of these days, I’ll stop talking about Rick Bragg…but not just yet.

Listening to: Miles Davis’ Quiet Nights

The Trucker, Again

2010-10-08T04:12:00.000-07:00

Dad has been feeling pretty good lately, and getting all A’s on his cardio exams. He still has a fib, but probably has had it all his life without knowing it. He just operates that way. If an ache or ailment doesn’t get him down enough to put him in the bed, then he doesn’t let it get him down, period. That’s a little scary, when you think about it, cause he had a heart attack once, and didn’t even realize it until the doctors told him six months later…it’s just the stock he comes from…

Daddy usually calls tomatoes da-matoes, which is real Southern of him. I suppose (or, I reckon) it would be even more Southern of him to call them da-maters, because so many hill folk put an er in the place of the e or a vowel ending.

As I was mowing mom and dad’s lawn last Saturday, Daddy came out to move the cars out of the way so that I could get closer to the garage. As I made a swipe near the driveway, he was walking along towards the back porch. He kept on walking, raised his hand to wave, and smiled real big at me. His smile reached all the way to his eyes, and for just a second, I caught a glimpse of the black-haired young trucker who held his little redhead in his arms one day long ago when the Goodyear Blimp came and touched down at our small local airport. His eyes are still as blue as they were that day…

Holding tight to the mower’s steering wheel with one hand, I raised the other to furiously wave back at him while I grinned like a fool. The good Lord is looking down on us in many ways. For one, He’s keeping an eye on my daddy. For two, He didn’t let me hit a hole in the yard and fall off the mower while I driving one-handed while waving at my Daddy. Daddy would’ve never let me use the riding mower again if that’d happened, no matter how cute he thought his little redhead was.

Listening to: Charlie Parker

Memories from a good childhood.

2010-09-29T11:14:00.000-07:00

Two thank you letters that I wrote and mailed recently:

To Mike Goodson,
I wanted to thank you for your GPL Lunch 'n Learn presentation last week! I was so inspired by your talk, I went right out Saturday afternoon with Eric and had my very first Magic Burger! Don’t think I would’ve done it if you hadn’t mentioned it alongside Runt’s. I already have fond memories of going to Runt’s with my daddy back when I was a little girl. It would just be me and him out doing what we liked to call runnin.’ We were supposed to be running errands, but we always got sidetracked with other stuff like burgers at Runts, and bingo at the VFW, Post 2760. Good times. Thanks for reminding us how fun Gadsden was, and still is!

To Dr. Evelyn Brannon (who happens to be the daughter of the dear lady from whom I bought The Bungalow recently),
I wanted to thank you for your GPL Lunch 'n Learn presentation on 50’s fashion yesterday! Your slides brought back memories of playing in my mom’s clothes as a child and of spending endless hours looking at photos of her as a child, adolescent and adult. I look back now at some of those photos of her as a young adult in her matching sweater set, long straight skirt and white socks with saddle oxfords, or as a beautiful bride in her smart ivory suit with gorgeous flocked handbag (which, luckily I have in my possession), and I think of how in those photos she represents the look of the decade…thank you for bringing back these memories for me!

Don'tcha just love memories that come bubbling up unexpectedly?

Interior Monologue...Not my own.

2010-09-16T06:51:00.000-07:00

So, I totally dig stream of consciousness writing. No, seriously, I do. My number one favorite book, the book that I must have with me should I ever be stranded on a desert island, is Absalom Absalom by William Faulkner. And I’m not ashamed to say that Kerouac’s On the Road squeezes into my top ten favorite books. Most of my close friends know that about me, and it doesn’t bother them. Some of them even go so far as to email me the names of SOC books should they read one that they think I’ll like. I enjoy stream of consciousness writing because it is a writing style that, to me, is most like real day-to-day thought patterns (and, in some cases, speech patterns). I enjoy stream of consciousness literature so much, I chose to read and lecture on a stream of consciousness novel for my EN 500 class last fall. I picked, no surprises, Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury.

Now, just a little bit about the book, in case you didn’t know (some of this is actually from my presentation and paper). The name The Sound and the Fury, taken from the somber Shakespearian play Macbeth, indicates to the reader that the novel is made up of things that clamor, that deafen, that savage, and that ultimately signify nothing. And indeed, from the first section of the book, a section that is narrated by an idiot, readers see that Faulkner’s characters are struggling in vain against each other, against changing societal mores, and against the hand that they have been dealt by God. They make victims and martyrs of themselves as they lash out unsuccessfully against those things and people whom they feel have done them wrong. Faulkner could have had his characters choose different paths, but had he done so, The Sound and the Fury would not be the Southern Gothic masterpiece that it is. In the end, the reader is left uneasy with the realness of the characters and the situations, especially those Southern readers. For who from the South doesn’t have relatives (dead or alive) who resemble one or more of the characters in The Sound and the Fury? Who from the South doesn’t have the same kind of disturbing family stories that, induced by a full belly and a glass of spirits, are told at Thanksgiving gatherings or reunions, long after the youngsters and the polite folk have gone to bed.

Why did the public find The Sound and the Fury a demanding and difficult book? Most likely it was because of Faulkner’s use of the stream of consciousness style, a style of writing first successfully employed by Irish writer James Joyce. Joyce had perfected the use of “interior monologue” in Ulysses by giving his characters long episodes of thought that were sometimes out of sequential order, and sometimes unpunctuated. The purpose of this technique was to allow readers key insight into the frame of mind of the characters. Interior monologue was very appealing to Faulkner for it gave him the freedom to put his character’s deepest and most hidden thoughts out in the open, thereby giving depth beyond the omniscient third-person voice. When Quentin loses control of his thoughts, Faulkner refrains from using punctuation and capitalization in order to emphasize Quentin’s internal monologue. Furthermore, this lack of punctuation and capitalization allows readers to recognize with greater certainty the slipping away of Quentin’s sanity and his rapid spiral towards suicide (Groden 265-266).

now we are getting at it you seem to regard it merely as an experience that will whiten your hair overnight so to speak without altering your appearance at all you wont do it under these conditions it will be a gamble and the strange thing is that man who is conceived by accident and whose every breath is a fresh cast with dice already loaded against him will not face that final main which he knows before hand he has assuredly to face without essaying expedients ranging all the way from violence to petty chicanery that would not deceive a child until someday in very disgust he risks everything on a single blind turn of a card (Faulkner, Sound 177).

The above passage has no commas to indicate pause, no apostrophes to indicate contractions, and no periods to indicate termination of thoughts. It is a fine and obvious example of the use of Joyce’s interior monologue. Throughout the years, Faulkner would repeatedly deny any conscious use of Joyce’s techniques, but he would never distance himself from the comparisons (Groden 264-266).

I’ve just finished another novel that has some lovely stream of consciousness passages, Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. It is Anna’s thoughts that are stream of consciousness, especially when she is beginning to come unhinged, as she contemplates suicide. Part 7 or Chapter 28 (page 854 of the 1993 Modern Library Edition) begins with the line, “The weather was bright.” The weather is in direct contrast with Anna’s mood. Anna is distraught. She is a married woman, who has left her husband and son to live with her lover. Her lover, Count Vronsky, with whom she has had a daughter, has recently been exercising his independence of Anna. A trapped and anxious Anna has been turning more and more to the drug morphine as a form of escape. She is certain that Vronsky is seeing other women, and is soon to abandon her for someone else. She exhibits outward signs of defensiveness, but internalizes all of her real fears. She baits and tests her lover, and when he fails, she threatens him with, “You…you will be sorry for this.” Indeed, Vronsky will be sorry, but so will Anna.

On her way to find Vronsky (ah, if only they’d had cell phones then), Anna’s thoughts are racing:

"I entreat him to forgive me. I have given in to him. I have owned myself in fault. What for? Can't I live without him?" And leaving unanswered the question how she was going to live without him, she fell to reading the signs on the shops. "Office and warehouse. Dental surgeon. Yes, I'll tell Dolly all about it. She doesn't like Vronsky. I shall be sick and ashamed, but I'll tell her. She loves me, and I'll follow her advice. I won't give in to him; I won't let him train me as he pleases. Filippov…They say they send their dough to Petersburg. The Moscow water is so good for it. Ah, the springs at Mitishtchen, and the pancakes!" And she remembered how, long, long ago, when she was a girl of seventeen, she had gone with her aunt to Troitsa. "Riding, too. Was that really me, with red hands? How much that seemed to me then splendid and out of reach has become worthless, while what I had then has gone out of my reach forever! Could I ever have believed then that I could come to such humiliation? How conceited and self-satisfied he will be when he gets my note! But I will show him.... How horrid that paint smells! Why is it they're always painting and building? Modes et robes," she read. A man bowed to her. It was Annushka's husband. "Our parasites"; she remembered how Vronsky had said that. "Our? Why our? What's so awful is that one can't tear up the past by its roots. One can't tear it out, but one can hide one's memory of it. And I'll hide it." And then she thought of her past with Alexey Alexandrovitch, of how she had blotted the memory of it out of her life. "Dolly will think I'm leaving my second husband, and so I certainly must be in the wrong. As if I cared to be right! I can't help it!" she said, and she wanted to cry. But at once she fell to wondering what those two girls could be smiling about. "Love, most likely. They don't know how dreary it is, how low.... The boulevard and the children. Three boys running, playing at horses. Seryozha! And I'm losing everything and not getting him back. Yes, I'm losing everything, if he doesn't return. Perhaps he was late for the train and has come back by now. Longing for humiliation again!" she said to herself. "No, I'll go to Dolly, and say straight out to her, I'm unhappy, I deserve this, I'm to blame, but still I'm unhappy, help me. These horses, this carriage--how loathsome I am to myself in this carriage--all his; but I won't see them again."

No, indeed, she won’t see them again…

They Grow 'em Big In Calhoun County...

2010-09-11T06:22:00.000-07:00

Met up with Rick Bragg last Friday. He was in town for our Gadsden Reads kickoff. We’re reading his book Prince of Frogtown, and we’ve gone about as crazy for his book as we did four years ago for Daniel Wallace’s Big Fish. Actually, we’ve gone crazier. You see, Rick is a local boy who done good. Came from tough Calhoun County stock (our neighboring county), went to college at Jacksonville State University (where I matriculated for my undergrad…Go, Gamecocks!), worked his way up through the newspaper world and became a New York Times best selling author…many times over. Oh, and I forgot to mention that he won this prize called the Pulitzer. That’s a big one, right? Just kiddin!’ Hah!

Anyway, the Gadsden Reads Committee picked Rick’s book The Prince of Frogtown because it was a book that spoke to our community, to the heart of our town. In Prince of Frogtown, Rick introduced us readers to his daddy, a charming, hard drinking, hard living man who grew up in the mill village of Jacksonville, AL. This was the same Daddy who, in All Over But the Shoutin’ ran out on his wife and kids, little Rick being one of those kids; a man we (and Rick), at times, didn’t trust. There's a whole lot more to the book than just Rick's daddy, but I think you should read the book rather than let me tell you about it.

So why did the book speak to us? In one word:

Memories.

Gadsden’s got a mill village, and our mayor, Sherman Guyton, came from over there. So did brother and sister Mike Goodson and Glenda Byars, and a host of other interesting characters. Mill villages are about the same all over. There’s good, and there’s bad in each one, depending upon whom you talk to. Some folks, like Glenda, remember their mill village of the 50s as a real sweet and innocent place, a place of starched crinolines, poodle skirts, surreptitious hand-holding with your sweetheart, Magic Burgers with malt shakes, and the Del-Vikings singin’ Come Go With Me. A place you’d never want to leave. Other folks remember their mill village in a less than innocent light. For them, their mill village was probably more like a place of tough and unhealthy work, practically owing your life to the mill, scraping and saving to have a (drink) life. I’d imagine that when they turned on the radio, they’d listen to songs like Hank Williams’ (big daddy, not junior) Your Cheatin’ Heart or Johnny Cash’s I Walk the Line. I suspect that they’d be looking for the closest exit out of their mill village…

Everybody there Friday night at the event was connected to Rick in some shape or form, or at least in their minds they were. “I used to live down the street from his momma.” “We went to the same high school…” “I used to pump gas for him…” I heard so many different stories as I made my way through the crowd, talking to folks, welcoming them, thanking them for being there. Everybody was real down home and friendly, just like Rick. I knew quite a few of them from the library. The others I didn’t know, but I can safely say that I know them now. That’s just the kind of night it was. Strangers huggin’ strangers, and folks makin’ friends.

Rick inspires familiarity, accessibility. Rick is of the people. He’s not a stuffy academic. But he sure as heck teaches Creative Writing at the University of Alabama. Rick’s got the stuff that writers, especially Southern ones, will go to the crossroads at midnight to bargain with the devil for. I know this for a fact. I’m not talking out of school when I say that I’ve personally watched at least one writer up close as they tried real hard to capture just that stuff. They got real close, maybe even finalized their own transaction with the devil (I didn’t stick around to find out, but I have my suspicions). But it’s not all about the fluff of barbecue sauce, preaching on the mount and the Civil War. I feel that you’ve either got it or you don’t. You can work at it as if it were a job, and hone that edge, but you can’t fake being a part of that public of which you write, especially the part of that public you call your people. Those people can smell insincerity and falseness like they can smell a pole-cat under the house. And when they’re done with you, they’re done. It’s true. You all know it is…you seen it before…

My daddy was at the event Friday night, sitting in his folding chair, eating a free Chick-fil-a sandwich, having a coke (translation: soda of some sort), and waiting for Rick to show up. Dad’s read more of Rick’s books than I have. He thinks a lot of him. I have my suspicions that they may be cut from the same cloth. About the time Dad finished eating his sandwich and I had begun eating mine, I noticed a discernible change in the atmosphere. That could only mean one thing. My eyes scanned the crowd and, yes sir, there was the man himself. I leaned down to Dad and said, “He’s here.” Dad held real still like a hunter not wanting to scare a deer away and asked, “Who?” “Rick,” I replyed. “Where?” Dad’s eyes squinted a bit as he looked off through the throng of people. I leaned in further, “He’s that big fella over there with beige shirt, directly in front of you, but across the way.” Dad spotted the man of whom I spoke. “Him? He’s too big. You sure that’s him?” “Yep. Dad, he’s a farm boy. You know they grow ‘em big in Calhoun County.” “Well, I never thought he’d be that big.” We just watched as Rick ran a hand through his loose hair before folks started coming up to welcome him. He was on. He made his way to the gazebo to address the crowd…

Later, after Rick had spoken for about five minutes at the mic before turning it back over to our favorite blue grass band Foggy Hollow (which, for the evening, was called Froggy Hollow), Dad was packing up his folding chair and readying to go home. Rick was trying to seat himself at the table we had set up for him, and a hundred or more people were trying their hardest to NOT form a line in front of him. They wanted time with Rick, and by God they were going to get it, one way or the other. Rick knew that, that’s why he kept it short and sweet at the gazebo. He knew that he would give personal time to each and every person there that evening. And that’s exactly what he did. I can’t tell you how many hours the man spent there on that folding chair, smiling, talking, listening and signing, but it was nightfall before he got up to head out.

We had packed up all the tables, given away all the free Chick-fil-a sandwiches, and were just killing time near the courthouse when I saw Rick walking towards his car. He didn’t notice as I observed him. He looked beat and ready to go. I slipped away towards him with my right hand outstretched to thank him. The minute he saw me, he perked back up, and took my hand. He was back on. “How ya holdin’ up?” I queried. Realizing who I was, he shook my hand and then shook his head, “I’m wore slap out.” He was the real Rick. “You stayin’ in town, or are you headed somewhere tonight?” I asked. “Headed to Mobile, but just gonna try to get to Montgomery.” We chatted a bit more about traveling as we headed towards Bobby, who was trying to fit fifty-leven Chick-fil-a warming bags into his vehicle. It was time to say goodbye.

While we were standing there shooting the breeze, Bobby mentioned the fact that there had been a personal biographer there in the crowd, a fellow with a video camera trained on Rick at almost all times. Rick responded with an incredulous, “Yeah! They took a look at me a couple of years ago and said, ‘He don’t look so good!’ They musta been thinking ‘He’s gonna die soon, so we’d better start recording something now…’” Rick just half snorted and shook his head. About that time a slew of Rick’s cousins came walking out of the trees. The leader was a long-legged brunette beauty. She was followed by a thin, tough-looking fellow, and they were followed by what looked to be a passel of kids, all of them boys. One boy, an especially solid looking one, puffed up his chest at the others, looking to challenge them to a fight, or something. He was so cute and fierce looking, taking a stand like that, I started laughing at him. A long-legged older woman, probably the long-legged brunette’s momma, came walking up with a pack of cigarettes in one hand, a lighter in the other. She noticed me watching the little ones, the one in particular. “What’d he do?” she half-jokingly demanded (sounded like she’d had to say that on many occasions before). “Aw, he just come up so tough, like he was gonna clean house,” is all I said. “Yeah, he’d do that,” she affirmed. We stood around for a bit longer, listening to the cousins talking, then called it a night. Last I saw of Rick, he was standing there next to the parking lot, family gathered around him, a loving but tired king, holding court.

Speaking of frogs (isn’t that what we were really talking about?). We’ve got more frogs than you could shake a stick at around here at The Bungalow. Lots of little ones, small green tree frogs, and even smaller mottled brown original recipe frogs. I saw one the other day while I was digging in the pet cemetery. It was no bigger than the nail on my little finger. And while I was watering the sun-burned hydrangea (which is coming back, I may add), I spied a tiny little frog napping in the curl of a new leaf. He was as green as a Granny Smith Apple, and as unconcerned about big ole’ me as could be. I like the little guys. They are nice company. And they were certainly here before Slim and I, so I feel that they have the right of way. There are two of them on the back deck right now…one under the dusty blue aardvark, and one clinging to the edge of the bistro table…

Nesting

2010-05-19T08:42:00.000-07:00

It is Wednesday, the 19th of May. I am sitting in the quietude of the living room of The Bungalow, listening to the faint sounds of the myriad of birds, stretching their wings and warming up their vocal chords to serenade the neighborhood this morning. I cannot describe how lovely it is here on this dead-end street, perched above the bird sanctuary. And I cannot help but compare our 10th Street houses, full to the gills with kind and interesting people (and on a sunny, warm day, streets filled with flocks of playful children) to the homes of those avian counterparts out there somewhere in those kudzu-covered trees at the end of our street…we all line our nests as comfortably as we are able to, and bring food to share with our loved ones.

The Bungalow…we can’t seem to come up with any name other than that…we’ve hoped that something poetic or literary like The Whitman or Twelve Oaks (or, in this case, Two Pines) would reveal itself to us as a name for this place, but all that keeps coming out of our mouths is The Bungalow. So, knowing that places often name themselves, and also knowing that bungalow is as bungalow does, I think that The Bungalow is The Bungalow. I could be wrong about this, so we won’t be ordering up a shingle for the front porch, but I have a distinct feeling in my gut that The Bungalow has spoken…

Work is progressing on The Bungalow, and the Newton ‘plex is completely vacated now. The Bungalow living room (or front parlor if William Faulkner were writing about this entry) is painted, with furniture more or less placed. And the dining room is painted…yet still filled with boxes waiting to be unpacked or placed in other (unfinished) rooms. I am beginning to think that the boxes are getting randy every night when the lights are off, creating a population explosion of the corrugated kind. It is out of hand, I must say, but something that has to be lived with as we make progress in other parts of the house. The dining room will remain the holding room until further notice.

Slim and I took a break from work (he from his job, me from the house as I had taken a week of vacation to supposedly whip things into shape) this past Friday and headed North a piece to the mountains of Mentone. I am ashamed to admit that I have never been to Mentone before, but Kansas Slim had photographed the area on a couple of occasions, and some church friends had offered their cabin on the brow to him for the weekend. It was Rhododendron Festival time, so I envisioned masses of sweaty tourists filling the rhododendron-lined streets, snapping photos and jostling about. But no, that was not to be. Nothing turned out to be what I imagined it would be. Mentone during the Rhododendron Festival is rather sweet and not over-filled with anything, tourist or rhododendron. Slim’s friends forewarned us that Mentone during the Rhododendron Festival would be low-key, and they were very much correct on that description. But their “cabin on the brow” remark turned out to be an understatement. The cabin is actually a picturesque little mountain home with two bathrooms, a full kitchen with small dining area, a sleeping porch, an attic, and Direct TV. There is a divine screened-in porch off the living room, sporting another quaint dining area and a seating area of what amounts to be a herd of rocking chairs (Slim couldn’t help but query about a long-tailed cat). The property, which indeed stretches along the brow of the mountain, is home to not just the one cabin, but also serves as home to a rather large manor-like house (being built by the brother-in-law of the owner), a stone apple house, a tractor shed, and a third vacant house that serves as storage (and was purchased in order to obtain the stone apple house). Essentially, the cabin we stayed in was a small part of a rather large family compound…and we didn’t “rough it” at all out there in the woods. As a matter of fact, we had a splendid time relaxing away from the moving boxes and paint cans and lists of things to be done. We dined on steaks and salad, and desserted on a shared Napoleon. After dinner, we explored the compound, walking off our meal. Sleep came early and hard, the cool mountain air running me under the covers, the memory of a hard week of moving left behind, slipping away with the breeze.

Morning dawned, and brought with it a severe hunger for some vittles. The only eatery that I had ever heard of in Mentone was the Southern-Living-recommended Wildflower Café. Slim, who had dined there before, recalled the food being decent, but nothing to write home about. I found it to be about what we could cook up in our own kitchen on a lazy day (which would be healthy and tasty), but even better because we didn’t have to do it ourselves, and it was served in an interesting flower-child-like environment. When we arrived, a bluegrass band was warming up on the side porch, and the wait staff were all either sporting straw cowboy hats, or trying to decide whether or not to sport a straw cowboy hat for the day. Everyone seemed real friendly, staff and customers alike, and when a rather large and healthy dragonfly flew across our table and flung itself at one of the windows across the room trying to find a safe passage out into the cool shadows of the porch, Slim and I asked the customer who was sitting there if she would mind us raising the window for a moment to see if the big guy would fly out. She very helpfully agreed, and Slim strong-armed the window up. The dragonfly floated out (I imagined for a moment that it looked back at us over its shoulder and waved goodbye, but dragonflies don’t have shoulders, nor do they have hands with which to wave). I’ll have you know that Slim lost absolutely no man card points that day for letting a trapped dragonfly out of a window in a room full of women. Admiring eyes from every direction affirmed this notion, making my little ‘ole heart go pitter-patter at his chivalry. I rather proudly sat back down across from him and smiled the whole time as I waited on my Mediterranean Wrap…

And while I waited on that wrap, the kitchen staff were having one heck of a good time in the back, so much so that one of the waitresses had to go up to the “order up” window and yell back at them, “No sandwich profanity in the public area!” Now I’m no sailor, but I don’t think I’d mind sandwich profanity at all, so I was real disappointed to hear her order them to stop whatever it was that they were saying that may have offended HER ears. Personally, I’ve never heard sandwich profanity, and I felt it was a darn shame that here was a woman taking it upon herself to stop me from hearing it while I finally had the chance! I grumbled on the inside a bit, and never did hear anything said at all that could’ve been construed as profanity that morning, sandwich or otherwise. And to think that with all the schooling I’ve received, I’ve remained so uneducated. We returned to Gadsden later with me a whole lot rested, but just a little short on worldly knowledge of certain culinary cursing…

The other day I mailed my first letter. The mailbox on The Bungalow is made of iron, and is fashioned to resemble what I believe to be an old pony express bag, complete with “leather flap top and buckled straps.” Not knowing the protocol for sending mail from this Bessemered pony express bag, I clipped my outgoing mail to the front of the box with a sturdy clothespin (left there by Miss Mildred, who I assumed sent her outgoing mail in the same fashion). I did not realize at the time, but I had propped the top of the mailbox with the clothespin, leaving about a two-inch gap open. Early the next day, when I stepped out to sweep the porch, I noticed that my outgoing mail was gone, but that the clothespin was still propping open the mailbox. As I unclipped the pin, I saw moss and pecan tree schmutz sticking out from the bottom of the box. Stretching on tip-toe, I peered down into the box to spy the beginnings of a very soft nest for some animal-or-bird-sort of creature (one that, like me, enjoys a comfy bed). Indeed, we line our nests as comfortably as we are able to…

Listening to: Miles Davis.
Eating: The sweetest corn on the cob, ever (I say that every time I have the first corn of the season)!
Reading: Just finished Columbine by Cullen. It did me in. I waited a couple of years to read this for a reason. When I lived in Denver and was employed by JEFFCO, I worked with just enough high-risk teens from that school to know it would hit too close to home. It did. Saving my reading for the Russian Book Club now…ahhhh…(read with a Russian accent) The summer of the Russians...

Historic District Adjacent

2010-04-17T05:39:00.000-07:00

Well, because I didn’t think finishing up grad school was enough work, I decided last month that I was going to buy a house, too. What I set my sights on was an 80 year-old Craftsman Bungalow located in an old, yet “up and coming” part of downtown Gadsden. “Up and coming” is code for a “mixed” or “diverse” neighborhood. Not the kind of neighborhood that most white Southerners driving through would stop and say, “Wow, I like the looks of that street!” As a matter of fact, it is the kind of street that honestly does have a “wrong side,” or at least a wrong section. What I mean by that is this: 10th Street is bisected and chopped up in a number of places by different streets throughout the downtown area. The particular side of 10th on which I bought, is a section bisected by Randall (Randall is the street that leads me to a number of my favorite people and places); it is the southern dead-end tail of South 10th Street. And although there are decoy houses at the beginning of our street (houses in ill-repair that make people think our street isn’t that fabulous), evidently this section of 10th is the good section; the bad section of 10th is a tiny bit farther North, and is…well, according to some folks around here, not as good, I suppose. Because I have friends who live on the not-so-good part of 10th, I won’t speak real ill of it. And I won’t speak real ill of it because I really never figured out what made it not-so-good.

Now, our part of So. 10th is really quiet. Our neighbors are a mix of young and old, singles and marrieds, blacks and whites, furred and feathered. This is a neighborhood where children play, dogs bark and people tend their yards. Folks stop by (as evidenced last night when across-the-street neighbors Janice and Nathan walked over to introduce themselves), and birds fly overhead regularly on their way to the bird sanctuary, which is a stone’s throw (a very steep stone’s throw) from the house. Not all of our neighbors are alive. There is an old cemetery in the woods somewhere a bit east of the dead end, and there is the beloved feline of the previous owner, Ms.Vinson who is buried in the backyard of our place. At the closing yesterday, Ms. Vinson’s daughter told me to be mindful if I do any gardening out back; they were not able to bury the old girl very deep. That is a piece of information I will heed. I feel it proper to honor the dead, whether it is two-legged or four.

The house was built in 1929, and is all-brick construction. There is a rather pastoral-looking full brick garage behind the house that is impossible in which to get a car, and a large fenced-in back yard that slopes away from the house (according to Ms. Brannon, Ms. Vinson’s daughter, the back yard was a peach orchard at one time). My two favorite features are the schmancy porte cochere, and the deep dark porch. I’ve been on that porch many times now, at different times of the day, and I have ALWAYS felt a cross breeze. Ms. Vinson rhapsodized yesterday about how when Mr. Brannon (Ms. Vinson’s first husband) was house hunting for the two of them, she never even saw the inside of the house before she agreed with her husband to buy the place. Evidently, while Mr. Brannon was looking at the inside of the house, she was sitting on the porch falling in love with the cross breeze. What Ms. Vinson (then Brannon) did not see until later were the living room, dining room, three-bedrooms (the third is small enough that one questions its distinction as a room), one bathroom boasting a jade green tub that looks like a spearmint throat lozenge, an efficient galley kitchen, mud room (which would’ve been a porch then), and spacious basement. The narrow plank oak hardwood floors, currently covered in carpet (but not for long), would have been exposed, and the plaster walls & ceiling, concealed by paneling and ceiling tile at the moment, would’ve been in their Craftsman glory. The yard is exploding with flora: hydrangeas, azaleas, nandinas, money plant, ivy, fig, forsythia, sweet shrub, and shamrock. There are two pecan trees in the back yard, and two enormous pine trees gobbling up the sidewalk and obscuring the front of the house (they will have to go, and be replaced with trees more suitable to the size and architecture of the house). Ms. Vinson must’ve become quite the gardener during her 53 years there. Slim and I will take up where she left off…

Listening to Parachutes by Coldplay and eating a good deal of fast food, which I will put a stop to once I finish up my class work in the next two weeks. Graduation is at the beginning of May. I will not be walking in the ceremony. More on that later. And yes, I really do mean that I will be posting to my blog more often. I’m surprised that my posting of this blog didn’t shut the whole innernets down…

Goldie Locks & the Three Chairs

2009-11-20T06:54:00.000-08:00

This is an entry that I started a month ago and I am finally just now ending it. Mid October, Dad went into the hospital to have an abdominal aortic aneurysm repaired. The aneurysm was quite large, 10cm, and we were warned that the surgery would be as difficult, if not more so, than Dad’s triple by-pass surgery of two years ago. About a week and a half after the surgery, still not recovering as he should be, Dad’s surgeon placed a nasal gastric tube into his stomach to remove the fluid and air that had built up there. In the following days, Dad continued to grow even sicker from an unknown source of infection (all x-rays were coming back clean), until (about twelve days after the initial surgery) a team of doctors opened him back up for exploratory surgery. They removed a very dead and gangrenous gall bladder, and placed him in SICU. There he remained for another eleven days of close observation. He moved back on the eighth floor for over a week, improving a little more each day. We were finally able to spring him from the joint Wednesday. It was a glorious morning yesterday when I saw Dad emerge from his bedroom while I was drinking my coffee. It is too mild of a statement to say that I am glad he is home.

Here are a couple of the more humorous entries from Dad’s hospital stay, or the time that we like to refer to as Dr. Ferguson’s Science Experiment:

22 October 2009 Day Three in the hospital with Dad.
Massive abdominal aortic aneurysm, 10cm. Planned surgery. Just got him from the ICU, and he’s adjusting to the room. He’s had difficulty breathing since last night, and is just now getting his oxygen levels back to where they need to be. We were schooled on how Dad is supposed to get himself up. He does it the right way when hospital staff are looking, and his own way when they are not. Had a moment with him earlier when he decided that he wanted to get back into the bed because it could be adjusted up into recliner form. He found the bed to be unsatisfactory after sitting there for all of two seconds, and decided that he wanted to sit in the real recliner across the room. Now the room is not very big, so this shouldn’t have been an issue, but FOR REALS this is the most cramped room ever, and when a drug-hazed Dad says he wants to do something, he starts moving, and asks questions later. It is just like a NY apartment, five rooms of furniture crammed into one room. I warned dad that the chair he was interested in moving to was a rolling chair, and that it sat no straighter than the bed. He wanted in it anyway. Had to move him out the other side of the bed, make him stand there while I moved his IV and fluids, put pads down on the chair and finally let him sit. He sat for about five seconds before declaring the chair to not be as comfortable as the first chair. Alright, Goldie Locks…

23 Oct 2009 Zapruder Tape, Part II, Take I
Off the IV for half a day now, and they are not giving him fluids. In fact, they gave him another diuretic to take off any excess fluid. He is dry now. Moved to a larger room. Bought Dad a small cactus garden to brighten up his little postage stamp of the hospital. On the card I write “Treat this plant like they are treating you…give it very little water. Love, your girls.” In addition, I thought a nice football shaped balloon with ALABAMA across the belly would be a pleasant touch to his accommodations, considering the Alabama Tennessee game tomorrow. Dad is catching some shut-eye, and I am enjoying a chapter of The Secret Garden when all of a sudden a gun-shot goes off in the room. I bolt upright, gasping for breath while looking around for Lee Harvey Oswald, and see no assassin, no gun, just the ALABAMA balloon falling flaccidly to the ground, gaping wound from over-inflation…I look across the room to the sleeping trucker, and he’s no longer asleep. His eyes are wide open and he’s looking at me. “Did you have the big one?” he asks. I stammer a moment, say something about the balloon exploding, and then ask him if he’s okay, does he feel lightheaded? He gives me a weak but almost conspiratorial smile and says that it didn’t bother him a bit, but wants to know if I’m okay. After I put my head between my legs, and breathe deeply, I am okay.

Dad’s doctors are an eclectic team, each with his own distinct personality and style. Dr. Ferguson is like a strangely confident and intelligent Kramer from Seinfeld, bursting through the door (almost skidding to a halt) with uncontained medical enthusiasm. Fergie, as my Dad calls him, always shoots it to you with the bad case scenario first just so that when things go blindingly well, you are thrilled to find that you are still alive. Dr. Vipul Amin, Dad’s GI man, is a spiritual yogi of a doctor who promised to not hurt him, and then didn’t hurt him as he re-inserted an NG tube back down Dad’s nose and into his stomach. “LOOK at me, Mr. Roark,” Dr. Amin commanded in his steady voice. “I will not hurt you.” He pushed the tube in. “That is the only discomfort you will feel. Look at me and focus on my eyes…” And finally, there is Dr. Alberto Echeverri, whose demeanor is so soothing, so calming, that you believe everything will be okay if he says it will be so. Dr. Echeverri is the type of doctor who will be walking with his colleagues, see you across the lobby and call out to you so that he can find out how you are doing and how you feel your patient is doing. He always takes time to talk about the surgical and healing processes, and he always wants to know how you as the caregiver are holding up.

And Dad’s nurses are like a major weather front of medical care. In SICU there is the thunder storm of charge nurses, Janie, who runs a tight, orderly and informative ship. Then there is LeeAnn, Dad’s heartbreakingly caring SICU nurse, who is married to the equally heartbreakingly caring Sid. Dad was fortunate enough to have seven days of care from LeeAnn, while receiving seven nights of care from Sid. The two of them together are a tornado of extra special nursing. On the eighth floor there is Joy, Candace, Kayla, and a plethora of other nurses who are like a full-on tropical storm of NG tubes, Jackson Pratts, catheters, IVs and spirometers. And then there are hurricanes Susan and Cindy. If not for the persistence of Susan and Cindy in the weeks following the first surgery, the second exploratory surgery may not have happened when it did. All of these nurses took such a personal interest in my Dad’s care, that they began to see him as family, and acted accordingly. They have been the truest good stewards of my Dad’s health. And for that, I will be eternally grateful.

Now, in addition to Dad being down and out, Kansas Slim has had a bit of a run of bad luck, too. Last Sunday while warming up for a cyclocross race at Sloss Furnace, he took a spill and hurt his wrist. He was unable to compete in the race, and by the time he had driven home, the wrist had swollen to an unnatural size. His doctor didn’t have an opening until Tuesday, at which time it was determined that Slim’s wrist was probably broken. A visit to an orthopedist confirmed that yes, indeed, the wrist was broken…so broken as to require surgery. There were two options: apply an external fixator, or open it up for a plate and screws. Neither of the options sat too well with Slim, but there was simply no choice on his part. Surgery came and went on Thursday with the latter of the two options being the choicest for the injury. So, Slim, with a new set of internal hardware, is on his way to recovery. Things have gone well so far, but the pain has recently taken on a new dimension. I’ve never broken a bone, nor have I ever had anything screwed into one of my bones, but I would imagine that eventually a person who has had either of those things happen to them would experience a kind of pain that emanates from the bone in such a way as to make them want to bite that part of their body off. Slim looks as though he is ready to start chewing at his wrist any moment now…

I part with some words from Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden that I shared with Dad recently.

“When new beautiful thoughts began to push out the old hideous ones, life began to come back to him, his blood ran healthily through his veins and strength poured into him like a flood…His scientific experiment was quite practical and simple…Much more surprising things can happen to any one who, when a disagreeable or discouraged thought comes into his mind, just has the sense to remember in time and push it out by putting in a n agreeable determinedly courageous one. Two things cannot be in one place.
‘Where you tend a rose, my lad,
A thistle cannot grow.’”

September Song

2009-09-11T06:49:00.000-07:00

I was living in Capital Hill, Denver, CO. We were having a poetry festival that weekend and had writers flying in from all over. My sister and her future husband were visiting from AL. When I woke that morning the first plane had already hit...the second plane followed. I was stunned and confused...worried about my friends who live in NY, worried about our traveling poets who would've been flying out of NY that morning, worried about whatever was happening, because at that moment no one really knew what was happening. None of our frantic calls to NY were going through. The capital was a block away from my apartment, so my neighborhood was locked down. It was surreal. Later that day (or perhaps it was the next, the days all blended), my sister and I walked down to a neighborhood shop just to get out for air. In amongst the chachskis, I found a matchbox with a black and white image of the NY skyline on it. The focus of the image was the Twin Towers. I still have that matchbox.

September Song
Oh, it's a long, long while from May to December
But the days grow short when you reach September
When the autumn weather turns the leaves to flame
One hasn't got time for the waiting game

Oh, the days dwindle down to a precious few
September, November
And these few precious days I'll spend with you
These precious days I'll spend with you

Frank Sinatra sings it best...

Destination: The Urban Family Cincinnati

2009-09-05T14:01:00.000-07:00

The GPL reopened Monday after being closed since May 3 because of a terribly leaky roof. A great deal has happened in the past two weeks, most importantly, the birth of our wee Fleegan friend, Cash Dean Catoe. Cash was born in a rather theatrical way, after what seemed to be a pretty typical pregnancy, and the theatrics have only just now begun to subside. He’s a pretty little guy, with red lips and a massive head of hair, and when you hold him, he scrunches down on you like he’s trying to burrow into you. It like he’s not quite ready to be out of the oven, and he’s trying to get back in…

So, while the Catoes were in Birmingham celebrating the birth of 2.0, Slim and I were headed to Cincinnati, the city where I was born. The reason for the trip was to see some of my old Ithaca Urban Family, the famed Brian & Olga Davies. It had been about 9 or 10 years since I had last seen B&O. They had two children during that time, two children whom I had never met, Diego and Marco.

Heading out on a road trip is always fun; heading out on a road trip with someone who is as equally excitable and eager to gawk at (and photograph) roadside curiosities (like the big Brown Squirrel selling furniture in Knoxville, and the road sign for Big Bone Lick, and further down the road, the sign for TMI) as oneself is even more fun. It was a trip of unanswered banana phone calls to friends, and split second decisions to stop at a liquor emporium in KY in the hopes of finding the elusive Original Barrel Bourbon that I just cannot find any longer (freaking Brigadoon of bourbon). By the time we tooled into the Natty, it was after 6PM, and the temperature was blessedly in the upper 70s. We slipped along the lovely Ohio River, and turned into the historic O’Bryonville neighborhood.

The Davies home is located on the corner of a very quiet street that intersects with a very busy thoroughfare. The property is almost triangular, with a tall hedge of camellias cushioning the sounds from the busy side street, and a fenced in back yard where the boys play (while we were there, the boys rarely played in the back yard…they preferred the front yard, or the home of the neighbor, strolling off in their pajamas under the pretext of looking for lizards, and ending up in the neighbor’s house long enough for Olga to have to phone over to have them sent home…they were like the smallest neighborhood ambassadors, spreading their sunny cheer, reminding me of myself and my sister when we were little). The lovely two-story stuccoed house is over a hundred years old, boasts hardwood floors, tall ceilings, and nooks & crannies throughout. The kitchen is magnificent in its amenities. I stood slack-jawed at the marble cabinet tops, double ovens, a stove hood of sleek German line (name promptly forgotten), butler’s sink, and an espresso maker. A Breville espresso maker. An espresso maker that, in the hands of master espresso maker Brian Davies, produced the gateway cup of espresso that knocked me completely off the strict one-cup-of-coffee-a-day wagon. This espresso was soft, like a blanket, and rich in aroma and taste, like a bar of dark chocolate; not too acidic, not too caffeinated…just right. I wanted to lie down in that espresso, and roll in it…

When we arrived just after 6 that evening, Olga was preparing to host a new mom’s PTA meeting for Diego’s school. She was dressed to kill in a white fitted suit, black three-inch heels and a black t-shirt with hot pink lettering that read “Party Girls.” She looked like the third partner of Crocket and Tubbs, and if I had not seen her without her jacket, I would’ve thought she was strapped and packing heat. The PTA plan was to have a mixer featuring heavy hours devours and drinks for the moms…sounded like a PTA group I could get behind. Olga promised to return from PTA in time to have late drinks with us before we toddled off to bed. In the four hours that Olga was gone, Slim, Brian, Diego, Marco and myself walked hand-in-hand up to O’Bryon’s Irish Pub for grub, and then, under the direct request of the imploring Marco, toured Owl’s Nest Park. As we made our way into the dark park, heading towards the swings & slides, Diego made some remark about the bad people who stay in the park at night. Now, Slim and I recognize a parent’s scare tactic when we see one (the best scare tactic to use on Marco is to tell him that whatever bad thing it is that he is doing will result in him getting hurt, and will make him bleed…because evidently, a bleeding Marco is the worst thing in the world that Marco can imagine…and rightly so. A bleeding Carol is not very appealing to me), and wanting to continue into the park without causing great distress to the youngsters, we (including Brian) replied that as long as WE adults were there with them, THEY would be safe. It is only when little children venture into a park alone at night are they in such danger from bad people. The park was donated to the city in 1905, and was a part of a former estate. It is a well-maintained wide-open green space, with a very nice playground. The boys love it. It is a loveable place.

True to her word, after several hours of catching up with Brian, and getting to know the confident Diego and the painfully expressive Marco, Olga returned. We finished the evening off with home-brined olives, glasses of Luis Philip Edwards, and lots of stories. We fell into bed at around 2AM, an hour that has long known my absence.

Morning broke with temperatures in the upper 50s. Olga & Brian slept in while Slim and I followed Diego outside for some fresh air. As Diego searched for lizards, we sat on the front porch waking up. I began to shiver, so I got up to go get my hoodie and discovered the front door was locked. Marco stood on the other side of the glass, looking at me trying to get in, smiling. I smiled back at him, pointed at the lock and asked him to unlock the door. He reached and reached for the dead bolt, but it was not within grasp. With one of his many million dollar expressions, he became frantic at my being locked out and his not being able to assist me, and finally, he dissolved into tears. I told him through the glass that it was okay, to please not cry, but he took off up the stairs for help (I imagined the scene: him running into Olga and Brian’s bedroom, crying and ineffectively trying to tell them that Slim, Diego and I were locked out of the house. Olga & Brian would be caught in a Lassie-like moment when Brian would shout “It’s Timmy! He’s down the well!”). While Marco was upstairs trying to get help, the ever good natured and very cool Diego showed up from his lizard hunt and strong-armed his way into the side porch door, which, unbeknownst to us, had been unlocked that morning when the boys had exited it earlier. I confirmed with Brian later over the breakfast of “leftovers” Olga laid out for us (toast, lox & vodka cream cheese, caviar, and blueberries) that yes, when Marco came into their bedroom, it was like a Lassie episode…and they never could coax the plot out of Marco.

We spent the afternoon at Findlay Market, where Slim and I bought some Hungarian Red garlic and a sad excuse of a black & white cookie. The market was terrific, with locally grown produce, locally raised & butchered meats, cheeses & sweets, as well as soaps, lotions, salts and various other market wares. We worked up a very hefty appetite while we were there, which proved a good thing, for our evening meal (our last supper with the Davies before leaving the next day) was to be a traditional Puerto Rican dinner of beans, rice, pork and tostones. Now, Olga’s cooking is legendary; I learned a great deal from her when I lived below the Davies in NY. And I had spoken on a number of occasions to Slim about the cooking prowess of Olga as well. We thought we were properly prepared for the meal…but no one can EVER be properly prepared for the awesomeness of one of Olga’s meals. She had taken two racks of pork chops (unsliced) the day before, had rubbed them with olive oil & Sazon and left them to marinate. She also pressure-cooked a pot of red beans on the same day. Then, about four hours before we were to eat, she roasted the pork in the oven and reheated the beans on the stove. A pot of rice was made, and plantains were cut and soaked in Adobo water for the tostones. The cooking of the tostones was a thrill to watch; I had forgotten Olga’s methods for making the perfect product. Olga took the Adobo-bathed plantain slices and placed them into a pan of hot oil and cooked them until they were golden. Then she removed them to drain and cool, and flattened them with the bottom of a bowl. Later, right before we ate, she tossed them back into the hot oil to finish cooking; the end result was a crisp, flat tasty chip that the eater could dunk into an olive oil, mashed garlic and Adobo mixture. Dinner consisted of a heavenly chop cut off of the pork rack, a scoop of rice, a scoop of beans, some tostones…and some wine. This meal was (as always with Olgita) perfecto! I don’t think we were able to stay awake for too long after eating…we all drifted off into dreams of sailing down olive oil rivers on rafts made of tostones…

We took our leave very leisurely the next day. Intending to get on the road by 9AM, we finally pulled away from the curb at around Noon. Leaving was made less difficult with a promise from the Davies to come soon to Alabama for a visit. And Slim and I promised that we would not wait too terribly long to return to Ohio…one mention of my Aunt Marilyn’s farm across the river in Covington, a farm that also had a pool, perked the ears of Diego and Marco. Yes, I think Natty is moving into heavy rotation with Chatty these days…

Post Script: After much searching on the internet, I finally found Original Barrel Brand Bourbon Whiskey from Heaven Hill Distilleries in Bardstown, KY, availability in the US: Unknown. It looks like they don’t make it anymore…can you hear the tears streaming down my cheeks as I type this?

Tag Team Wildlife

2009-09-03T12:18:00.000-07:00

I apologize for the long delay in blogging. School and work are getting in the way of my blogging time, and I regret that I have not finished my latest friends-giving-birth & fabulous vacation/travel blog entry. I promise that I will finish that entry soon, hopefully sometime this weekend. In the meantime, my sister recently shared some old emails I wrote to her and mom back when I lived in Denver. Evidently she thought them funny enough or informative enough to save for posterity (or maybe she knew I would be so terribly forgetful one day). I have to say that when I re-read this email, I had to laugh at what happened back in September 2002…September 7 of 2002, to be exact…and to marvel over the long-forgotten eight-mile hike that I took with friends that day in Estes Park. This email was entitled: Tag Team Wildlife

We got on the road on time, and headed up to Estes Park which is where the Stanley Hotel is located (think Steven King’s The Shining). Didn’t see the hotel, but we did see a bunch of Highlanders in their kilts since the park was hosting their Scotch-Irish festival.

After parking in the lot and suiting up, we waited for the bus to come and pick us up to take us to the glacier trail head. The first part of the trail was really smooth and easy to hike and took us up onto a switch-back course where you could look out over the valley and see the mountains covered with Aspen trees just beginning to turn for Fall. The Aspens made a yellow stripe through the evergreen pines and it was so very pretty. The color of yellow the Aspens sported was the color of a squash, and the leaves on the ground looked like slices of squash, ready to be eaten.

After about a half mile, the trail became rugged, taking us around the top of the mountain. From that point on, the hike became alternately easy, then moderate until we got to the first lake, The Locke.

The Locke was (at its entrance) somewhat small, and opened out into the space between the mountains, becoming bigger and bigger in the middle, then at the other end becoming smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the waterfall region of the mountains where we were headed. We decided to eat lunch on a big rock overlooking the Locke. While I sat on my rock, Friend #1 went down to the waterside to eat his sandwich, where a beautiful Grey Jay flew down on a limb above his head to watch him eat. Then another Grey Jay flew in on the same limb to also watch him eat. I heard a scurrying up behind me and turned to see a chipmunk staring at my sandwich. I turned back around and thought about the warnings of “Do Not Feed The Animals.” Just then, I saw Friend #1 throw a piece of bread down on the ground for the jays to eat and thought, “Maybe we shouldn’t feed these birds because THEY, in fact, are animals...” About that time one of the jays bombed Friend #1’s hand, knocking the rest of his sandwich to the ground and in a flurry, snatched it up and took off. Meanwhile, the chipmunk was alternately running at me from different directions in what I now believe to be an attempt at making me think he was not one, but many chipmunks, and that I would become scared and give up my food to the army of chipmunks who were waging a war at me. Then, all of a sudden, a duck flew out of the trees and began to go after Friend #2. And when Friend #2 got up and moved away, the duck came after me! I was laughing almost too hard to move or defend myself. We decided to get the hell out of our peaceful spot of respite, and on our way out, we stopped to warn the hikers spreading out their lunch on a poolside rock to beware of the animals. We could hear their surprised cries and laughs as we got down the trail and knew that they had not seriously heeded our warnings.

We headed along the trail until we got up to a point of incline where the hiking was about to turn into rock scrambling and climbing, and decided to rest. We began talking to this lone hiker from Iowa who was a former art teacher and outdoors enthusiast who was now retired. And because his wife had been diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis and couldn’t hike anymore, he hiked alone. Iowa would catch up with us periodically and pass, and then we would pass him, back and forth, throughout the remainder of the hike. While walking beside me, he described the glacier lakes at the top and said he would see us there. And then he took off.

The climb to the lakes was at times tricky, but we went slowly and made it to the first lake called Lake of Glass. Clouds had moved into the area at that point and we had to put on our hooded jackets to stay warm. As he promised, we met up with Iowa again and he encouraged us to keep going up to the next lake, the last lake, called Sky Lake. He said it was most beautiful, and that you could see the glaciers really well there. We all took off, including Iowa, and hiked into the top lake. Oh, what a site it was! The clouds moved out just as we were coming into the clearing, so the lake reflected half blue sky and half grey. The color of the water was a teal/emerald. There were rock pyres on one side resembling the Eiffel Tower, while on the other side were remnants of the glaciers. The glaciers looked like smooth grey glass. They were a lot smaller than I had hoped them to be (one dreams of enormous glaciers) but the drought had decreased their size considerably the last couple of years.

We enjoyed the sight and rested there at Sky Lake for about an hour, testing the water temperature (very cold) and eating a snack for return hiking energy and then began our descent. We lost Iowa for awhile as he took an alternate route down the mountain, but we caught up with him again and hiked together till we got back to the Locke. That is where I sat down with him for awhile as he talked about how much he missed hiking with his wife. This time, when we parted, it was for the last time. I’m sure when he got back to his wife at campsite that evening, he had a lot to say about those crazy kids from Alabama he met up with on the trail.

The rest of our trip was just getting home and finding real food. We had buffalo burgers and beer at the Wyncoop Brewery and then went home. I was in bed by eight.

I hope you enjoyed this tale, and I encourage you to share it with my lovely sister as I will not be typing this damn story again for her benefit regardless of how much love I have for her. I love and miss you all! c

And so ends the story of Tag Team Wildlife...

A place where pork meat leaps from the bone onto your tortilla…

2009-05-24T09:37:00.000-07:00

Before: You asked for what!?!
I can’t even recall when the seed was planted as my heart’s desire birthday gift, but I’m sure that the original soil would have been that fertile field which is the Catoe Parsonage’s back deck. And I’m quite sure that the seed would’ve been blessed by Mr. Catoe as it began to take root in all of our minds. Then, we would’ve watered that seed well with Pinot Grigio or Riesling or Slim’s home brew beer, or a combination of all three, and called it a night. Who would’ve thought that an honest answer to an honestly asked question would evolve from the seedling of an idea to the Sequoyah of reality? What do you want for your birthday, Carol? A pig roast. A Cuban pig roast…

I may have awakened the next morning after that conversation not even remembering hitting the lever of the wheel I had set in motion. I probably had forgotten the talk of Chef Wood procuring a pig, and Kris offering his back yard for the pit, because there had to be a pit, because I must have dreamily recalled my friend Olga talking about the pit pig roasts of her Puerto Rican childhood. And I probably dreamily recalled standing at her kitchen counter in NY, exactly one floor below my kitchen counter of our apartment building, listening to Spanish music, drinking sangria and helping her peel and mash hundreds of cloves of garlic to rub, with Adobo, into the pig she would be serving at her rehearsal dinner. Pit roasted pigs are not something you see every day, especially in Gadsden, AL. Pit roasted pigs are the stuff of legend (and I would later find out, the cautionary warnings to fictitious offspring of the ornery kind…”If you don’t quit hittin’ your sister with that two by four, the headless pig will get you tonight,” or “Ya’ll keep disobeyin’ me, an I’ll let that headless pig come and take u’uns away…”

So, I went for days, possibly weeks without thinking about a pig roast again. Then, one night while having drinks with the Catoes on their back deck, Mr. Catoe says “Well, the Woods think their house will be done in time for the pig roast, so we’re going to have your birthday party over there.” I sat there for a moment or two, contemplating the size and cost of a pig, size of hole for roasting, number of hungry people, where one can find a pig pusher from which to purchase a pig to roast…things like that. Slowly, I began muttering something like, “Um, what if we just buy some pork shoulders to roast? We can get a bunch of those at the Dixie, and not have to worry about finding a pig and digging a pit in the Wood’s yard.” Mr. Catoe, without hesitating, “Oh, but Chef is already on it. He thinks he has a line on a pig, and the yard won’t be landscaped yet anyway, so you can’t mess up what isn’t fixed. And Chef is really excited about this! He’s never pit roasted an entire pig before.” I glanced over at Slim, he sitting there beside me, looking at me as if I was, by suggesting we cook something smaller and easier than a pig, actually suggesting something so disdainful, I may as well have been suggesting we go out and buy the ten for ten dollars Swanson’s Chicken Pot Pies from Johnson’s Giant Food. Any further protestations died on my lips. My friends had taken up the gauntlet I had inadvertently thrown down. The pig roast was as good as done.

I will never know what took place behind Fleegan communication lines to make that pig roast happen, but I do know that Chef and Slim did some research unbeknownst to me. I also know that a very savvy looking invitation was created and sent out by Dame Catoe. And I do know that by the late afternoon of Friday, May 11th of 2009, Liz and I were helping Chef transport from the SUV to the tub of the Wood’s unfinished bathroom an 80lb. half a pig that Chef had just brought from Weaver to Southside. The pig was wrapped in white plastic trash bags, placed by Chef on black plastic to prevent fluid seepage into the back of his truck. Upon opening the back of the truck, the plastic-wrapped pig looked like the body of some unfortunate deceased hitchhiker, stowed away from prying eyes by the person or persons who had done him in. Liz and I marveled out loud to Chef over the eerie dead-body-like-ness of the pig, to which he responded, with a nervous laugh, “Yeah, the guy who sold it to me said that if I got stopped by the cops on the way back, to not look nervous…”

During: To dig, to set fire to, to rub, and then to cook...
The sun was just beginning to go down that Friday evening when we began digging by hand at the scar on the ground that Chef had begun earlier with some large earthmover.
On this old rock pile, with a ball and chain, they call me by a number, not a name! Oh, lord! Gotta do my time. Gotta do my time. With an aching heart. And a worried mind.
Slim, Les, and I dug through the clay farther and farther down, sometimes passing the shovel off to one another so that we could take a break; the Dame and Cookie Magoo observed from a careful distance. The freshly arrived Mr. Catoe, one week away from surgery, and keeping an eye out for the concerned, and possibly disapproving eyes of Dame Catoe, attacked the hole like a hungry man eating a steak. He took some off the sides, plunged into the middle and made short work of everything in between. I think that we all enjoy doing this kind of work. I know I sometimes miss doing it for a living. But my, oh my, it is hard work.

With the hole dug, and the obligatory mock crime scene photos of me laying in the hole taken, heating the hole up was the next order of business. Slim and Chef laid large flagstone rocks in the bottom of the pit, and then stacked pallets in on top. Various kindling was added, and the proper accelerant was drizzled on top. After backing away from the pit at least three times while Chef tried to light the pile (we feared the entire thing would blast itself out of the ground in a big ball of pallet-fire), it finally caught. What a blaze we had! Very prehistoric and terribly effective for the work at hand.

We then fetched the pig (named either Wilbur or Dinner, depending upon who you ask) from the tub, and laid her out to be prepped on an eight-foot table. I cannot describe the conflicting visions of both gruesomeness and mouthwatering tastiness as Chef, Slim and Liz injected marinade into the muscle of the pig. With marinade seeping from multiple puncture wounds, Adobo was rubbed into the skin, and the pig was covered with aluminum foil, wet burlap and then cradled in a bassinette of metal lathe. She was then slung into the hole, topped with sheets of plywood, and covered with a thin layer of dirt. As we walked away from the pit that night to go, tuckered out, to our respective beds, you could hardly tell that anything lay below the mound of disturbed clay in the Wood’s back yard…

Saturday, May 12 2009

When Slim and I arrived the next day to assist with additional party prep, Cookie was already hard at work, transforming the garage from house-building-storage-area to a Cuban cigar bar. Liz and Chef seemed to be everywhere at once, vacuuming in one area, moving things to another area…and the pig was cooking away in its pit in the back yard, filling the air with the most delicious smell. Chef walked out with us to look at the fissures that had formed around one edge of the pit. It was like a big Glade Air Freshener, except the name of this air freshener would’ve been Adobo Rubbed, Pit-Roasted Pig, instead of Pomegranate Spring. Chef commented on how the smell was so rich because, if you thought about it, all of the cuts of pork were cooking at once in that pit…the shoulder, the bacon, the butt…

By party time, we were almost in a frenzy, so excited to see the results of Fleegan ingenuity. It took the same three people who cast the pig into the pit the night before to pull the pig back out. Slim, Chef and Liz hoisted the steaming body from the pit onto a plywood stretcher and carried it up to the table. As birthday girl, I was given the honor of unwrapping the gift, which was now sitting in a rapidly forming pool of tasty juices. As I pulled away layers of foil, glistening meat began falling away from rib bones, leaping towards imaginary tortillas, imaginary pots of black beans. Wilbur/Dinner was cooked to perfection. That WAS some pig…

I found myself (as I’m sure many other folks did that night), hours later, belly full of pig meat, black bean salsa, guacamole, cheese puffs, rice, pie, fruit, and sangria, sitting at a round table in the Cuban Cigar bar area of the party, puffing away on a cigar. I was in my favorite place to be: that place of food, drink and conversation where you can take communion with friends. It was the best birthday ever.

Post Script: It took me awhile to get around to writing this post because, for days after the party, I felt that no matter what I wrote, I wouldn’t be able to properly do justice to what went down. But once I started writing, it wrote itself. I want to thank everyone who was a part of my Cubano Pig Roast Birthday Party. My heart is filled with great happiness for you all being a part of my life.

To Craig

2009-05-10T10:36:00.000-07:00

I thought maybe if I read Shells again, and Eric read it with me, then it would turn out that nothing happened to Craig. I thought perhaps if we listened to Jeff Buckley and drank wine, Craig would be okay. I even thought that maybe if I avoided writing the words that Craig was gone, then maybe he wouldn’t be. Eric and I (as I’m sure so many others) tried to wish it so, even as Craig was, unbeknownst to all of us, already days gone. Rebecca’s Facebook update that evening spelled out that the search team found evidence that Craig suffered a leg injury, and very soon after that, fell over a precipice. It was a fall he could not have survived. They would continue to search for Craig, but there was no hope of finding him alive. He was gone. Rebecca went on to address her love for Craig, love that was unconditional and lasting. The post was no longer on the site the next morning, but was quoted by Ben Fulton of the Salt Lake Tribune in his article Poet fell to death from cliff.

I have seen on the Find Craig Arnold Facebook site that people have begun sharing their personal stories about Craig, people whose names I recognize from another time, another place. Most of the recollections are funny, many of them kind, some of them mischievous. That’s the way I remember Craig, funny, kind and mischievous. He was quite a remarkable fellow. I mourn the loss of Craig, his life and his poetry.

So, when I close my eyes and remember Craig, how do I remember him best? Craig is the “come on” inscriptions he wrote in everyone’s copy of Shells that evening at his rock-concert-like reading and book signing in the Denver of 2001. Craig is a pitcher of mojitos at Cuba Cuba. Craig is the warm pavement of my Capital Hill streets. Craig is the spiciest jungle curry on the menu of Tommy’s Thai. Craig is the intoxicating anise flavor of absinthe. Craig is Jeff Buckley singing Lilac Wine with a voice so sad & sweet, he’ll make you cry.

Craig Arnold

2009-04-30T13:58:00.000-07:00

I have copied a letter that I have emailed to Aderholt, Sessions, and Shelby. If anyone else out there can do the same, I would greatly appreciate it. Please help if you can...

I am writing to you on behalf of a friend of mine who, two days ago, was reported missing in Japan. His name is Craig Arnold and he is a Yale Younger Poet, as well as a professor of English at the University of Wyoming. He went missing while hiking a volcano on a small Japanese island. We are afraid that the Japanese authorities are going to call off the search for him before he is found. There is a distinct possibility that Craig is still alive, as he has experience in hiking volcanoes. I don't know if there is anything that you can do on his behalf (contacting someone at the American embassy in Japan, contacting someone you may know in the Japanese government)...but, if there is, I beg you to do it for Craig’s sake. For additional information, you may visit the following blog site that has been set up to keep us updated on the search:
http://findcraigarnold.blogspot.com/

I appreciate all that you do, and all that you can do...

Regards,
Carol

If the log rolls over, we’re all going to die!

2009-04-15T08:31:00.000-07:00

While cleaning out my work email, I discovered this blog entry that I meant to post back from June of 08. Better late than never, right?

6.25.08
So, Jolly Green and I were talking at work yesterday about the negative energy that some of our coworkers exude, and how, as Jolly Green said, it was very much like a swirling whirlpool of fear and threat that sucks you down. I snickered and said, “Yeah, it’s like ‘If the log rolls over, we’ll all drown.’” As I said it, I realized that she might not get the joke, so I waited a second for the sound of crickets when instead, JG busted out laughing and exclaimed, “God, I’ve not heard that joke in years!”

I was so glad that someone other than myself remembered such a stupid joke that I went and googled it to find the original full-text to share with everyone. I believe that the chap I stole this from is British. You will see why...

Voices In the Dunny
A man had been traveling in the night and it was getting quite late so he stopped at a motel for the evening. When he arrived at the motel, he asked if they had any spare rooms left. The receptionist replied, "Yes, but we only have room 13 left and the bathroom is believed to have ghost voices heard in it." Since the man was so tired, he took the room anyway. Later that night when the man was sitting on the toilet doing his business he heard voices calling out "When the log rolls over we will all be dead!" He left straight away and never returned. The next day a woman needed a room for the night and the same thing happened to her as the man the night before. A few days later an exorcist arrived at the hotel. He too got room 13, and that night when he was on the toilet doing his business he heard the voices as well. The exorcist immediately jumped up and ran around the room yelling "the power of Christ compells you!" He listened carefully and when he heard the voices again, they lead him back to the toilet. He slowly looked into the loo to see 3 ants sitting on a crap singing "when the log rolls over we will all be dead!!!!!."

Choke

2009-04-14T04:53:00.000-07:00

The light was red. We were coming back from a 5K that Slim had just run in Oxford, and were stopped behind a big, white extended-cab Dooley that had every seat in it occupied. From the looks of things, the back seats were filled with children, the front seats with adults. The driver had what appeared to be a wand of mascara in her right hand, and was applying a fresh layer of lacquer while sitting at the light. I looked over at Slim and said, “She’s puttin’ on mascara…” The driver’s right hand quickly disappeared for a moment and then reappeared with a hair pick. The light still held. She began to pick at her straight-as-a-board hair. “I’ve witnessed women doing one thing or another while driving before, but I’ve never seen one actually going through the full beautification process…” Her right hand rapidly disappeared again, this time to reappear with a can of hairspray. There was a fog of hairspray ‘round and ‘round her head. The boy child seated directly behind her began a pantomime of choking and waving until the driver opened up the truck door and fanned out the fumes. At the same time, Slim and I were choking on our own incredulous laughter at the traffic light histrionics before our eyes. We would’ve given them a standing ovation, but the light turned green.

Cue: Boomtown Rats’ I Don’t Like Mondays

2009-04-04T09:03:00.000-07:00

Lunchtime on a Tuesday, about a month and a half ago:
It was warm in the Lena Martin Room, so we left the door propped open in order to catch a breeze from the opening and closing of the front doors in the vestibule. A group comprised of Southern Baptists, Jews and Episcopalians were heatedly discussing a book about the holocaust. How could a holocaust happen…how can genocide still be going on today…how can people kill and be killed in such numbers without someone doing something to stop it?

One of my arguments was that (always with exception, of course) the aggressor oftentimes has the advantage of planning and surprise, whereas the victim behaves with disbelief and shock. There was agreement among the group. One individual made an example of the three planes of 9/11. Planes number one and two went to their targets as planned by the hijackers, filled with individuals who were probably thinking that theirs was a typical hijacking situation where, if they did what they were told to do, they would end up terribly late for their board meetings and vacations, but inconvenienced and alive. Plane three was filled with individuals who, via cell phone had already learned that theirs was not a typical hijacking situation, that two other planes had already proved the situation to be dire, and who, as an informed group, planned to fight back.

One individual queried, “But why wasn’t there a hero at Columbine…why did those big kids, those football players not take the shooters down?” Putting all reasons why the shooters did what they did aside, and trying to put the fact that I worked with some Columbine students when I worked with high-risk teens at the horticulture school in Golden, CO, I pointed out that although Klebold and Harris were individuals of slight stature, they were so well armed, and had so carefully planned their massacre, they had the advantage of planning and extreme surprise on their sides. At the time of the attack (1999), there had only been two other sensational cases of school shootings, but they had occurred so many years before, and pre modern media, few people were aware that they had happened. Schools did not regularly practice evacuations or lock-downs (they certainly do now). You just didn’t worry about something like that, because something like that couldn’t happen in your school (cue naiveté). For good and bad, what happened that spring day in 1999 prompted schools across the world to be aware of all behavior that could seem suspicious…and it still hasn’t stopped people (young and old, civilian and military) from orchestrating mass shootings at schools, malls, small town civic buildings, and Eastern countries…

As I sat there saying those words to my book talk mates, I heard a walkie-talkie go off in the vestibule of the library. My listeners leaned in towards me, and I continued. “For all we know, that walkie-talkie could belong to a person who has just walked into this library with the intent to set off a bomb that will drive people out of the front doors and into the crosshairs of a shooter who is waiting outside. They may have been radioing that shooter outside just now to give them the signal that it was time to get started…”

Just at that moment, a deafening siren went off and I almost crapped my pants (as I think everyone else must have almost done at that moment). Clutching my heart, I gasped for air and slid back in my chair, closing my eyes for a moment to watch the little-publicized security camera footage from the interior of Columbine High School, dated April 20, 1999…

The siren was the monthly severe weather check that I always forget about. I could not have paid for a better set of events to occur while telling a cautionary tale such as I was telling that afternoon, and I sit here typing this while being revisited by the memory of wanting to crap my pants…

As a somewhat related sidebar:
After the Columbine incident, the Jeffco school district put in place some very strict lockdown codes for their schools. At Warren Tech (the Jeffco technical school where I worked when I lived in Denver), our lockdown procedure required all faculty and students to go to a specific building located in the middle of campus. Now, the greenhouses where I worked were located at the very outskirts of campus, near the foothill trails that led up into the Rocky Mountains. When the lockdown signals were given, we were to gather our students together, and as a group trek all the way across half of campus to get to the building where we were supposed to meet. Well, this wasn’t very smart in our eyes. The horticulture teachers all had an agreement that no other teachers (administration included) knew about. We agreed that we would go through the lockdown motions for drills, but that we would head to the foothills should a real emergency occur. You see, we all understood that if we ever had a shooter on campus, we’d be easy prey for them, especially considering the geography of the path that we would have to take in order to get to our destination. We stood a much better chance of survival on the trails that we knew so well from our flora hikes, and could get into the foothills really quickly if needed be. We never discussed this with anyone, it was just understood…

Do you remember that one time when...

2009-02-24T16:08:00.000-08:00

What do you do when, right as you pull onto 4th Street (between Taco Bell & Chick-Fil-A), one of the two unbelievably heavy industrial shelving racks that are tied into the back of your borrowed pickup truck breaks free from its tethers, rolls straight off the back of the truck, lands upright on its wheels and begins rolling down the street in the opposite direction in which you were going? You grip the wheel maniacally while stopping the truck, yell, “We’ve lost one and it’s rolling down the street!” and watch as Kansas Slim leaps from the passenger side of the vehicle to sprint after the careening cartzilla. Hazard lights get turned on. Slim strong arms the unscathed and unwieldy rack to the grass at the side of the road. Cop cars sit all over the parking lot of the Chick, but no one notices what has just happened in the middle of the street. We decide to let the rack sit where it is until we safely deliver the other rack to Slim’s place (the odds of anyone stealing it off the side of the road are probably nil…these things weigh a ton, and not everyone in Gadrock is into the industrial look). We worry that the remaining rack will fall out too, so we lay the rack over. I hop in back with it and ride like a thirteen-year-old headed to the river on a summer day. Except I’m not thirteen, and it’s not summer. When we go back for the escapee, it is still sitting on the side of the road where we left it. I think it may be sneering at us as we pull up. We manage to get it back up into the bed of the truck, and I distract it with stories of the nice place in the country where it’s going to live while Slim Eagle-scout secures it. I ride in the back again, this time to RBC. I want to call my sister to tell her what I’m doing at that particular moment, but she would probably alert the po-lice and then we’d have a heck of an escort just for shits and grins. Instead, I just keep my head down and my hands on the rack. No one seems to notice the red truck cruising down Rainbow Drive with a redhead hanging on to an industrial shelving rack in the back. Nope, folks ‘round here don’t think that’s unusual at all.

I can’t tell you how relieved we were to finally get that last rack safely stored away. Once we were back on the road (heading again to the mall for the more manageable remainder of the load), every time I took a turn or hit a bump, Slim and I would catch ourselves cringing and looking back at the bed of the truck to make sure nothing was falling out. We would then repeat three times, “There’s nothing back there…there’s nothing back there…there’s nothing back there.” Slim and I agree that we can’t wait until enough time has passed and we have an opportunity to ask each other, “Do you remember that one time when…”

Catching a bad case of glitter from Serge Gainsbourg.

2009-02-22T09:28:00.000-08:00

Alex (to me): I can spell Baby Beethoven.
Me (to Alex): Really? Will you spell it out loud for me?
Alex (to me): Yes. B-A-B-Y B-E-E-T-H-O-V-E-N.
Me (to Alex): Wow, you’re brilliant!
Vicki (proudly, to me): That’s what his teacher said about him last week when he wrote it out in class.
Alex (to no one in particular): I’m going to have to pass gas now.
Vicki (to me): Can you spell I-D-I-O-T S-A-V-A-N-T?
Me (to Vicki): E-X-A-C-T-L-Y.

Quote of the day, from Demetri Martin:
The thing about glitter is, if you get it on you, be prepared to have it on you forever. Because glitter doesn’t go away. Glitter is the herpes of craft supplies.

Listening to: Serge Gainsbourg (I love his “come on” French talk-over style of singing).
Reading: Run by Ann Patchett.
Eating: Kababs with Kansas Slim tonight.

A Jar Full of Note Paper, 1975

2009-02-11T18:16:00.000-08:00

Several months ago, while doing research for a friend, I came across this in the Gadsden Times from March 27, 1975.

The Headline: Suicide note asks authorities not to seek victim’s identity.

Belle Chasse, La. (AP)-He only gave himself 16 or 17 years to “develop into a real person.” Then he bade his parents farewell in a note laced with philosophy and hanged himself from a persimmon tree.
“When you stop growing you are dead. I stopped growing long ago,” wrote the youth, whose body was found six weeks ago but who still has not been identified. His note was found beneath the tree where he hanged himself.
“I never did develop into a real person and I cannot tolerate the false and empty existence I have created,” he wrote in the note, addressed only to “Mom and Dad.”
He added this aside to authorities:
“You are bound to preserve domestic peace and order. If you pursue who I was (and spend hundreds of dollars) you will accomplish little. There are no legal consequences of my death or any kind of entanglements. All that can happen is that you will shatter the domestic peace and order of two innocent lives. Do not deprive them of the hope that their ‘missing’ son will return…Let me be, let it be as if I wasn’t ever here. Simply cremate me as John Doe.”
His body was found on Valentine’s Day by a couple driving through the woods. They noticed a white shape shimmering through the trees. They stopped to look and found the body hanging from a limb of a tree, a bedsheet tied around his neck.
He was wearing a maroon and yellow knit shirt, blue trousers and unmatched socks on his shoeless feet. A jar full of note paper lay against the tree trunk.
“It is best if I cease to live, quietly, than risk that later I will break and shatter by violence or linger years under care,” the boy told his parents in the note.
“I implore you to see a psychiatrist in order that you might understand my death and my life. Ask thoroughly about what I was and you will see that it is not tragic that I am gone but more natural than if I continued…”
The letter concludes, “I am no longer interested in the world and know that it is not interested in me. When you stop growing you are dead. I stopped growing long ago.”
Plaquesmines Parish authorities have circulated “John Doe’s” description and fingerprints to police across the country. But the body still lies in a funeral home, unidentified and unclaimed.

As Valentine’s Day draws near, I can’t help but think of this young man, so wonderfully articulate, and so full of disappointment at how his life turned out, so set on making sure that no one was inconvenienced by his life, or his death. He sounds to me as if he had developed into a real person, just painfully incapable of recognizing it, painfully incapable of allowing others into his life to help. I wonder if they were ever able to determine who he was and if his parents ever found out what happened to him…

Tea and Thorazine

2009-01-13T14:33:00.000-08:00

The new Andrew Bird album Noble Beast is out, and it does not disappoint. To listen to the first track go here:

Noble Beast

I first started listening to Mr. Bird when I moved to Ithaca and there was a swing dance revival that busted out all over the place. He was playing with the Squirrel Nut Zippers then, and I totally dug his righteous fiddlin’ and sweet wistlin.’ Years later, he went solo with his own band, Bowl of Fire. Now he is just Andrew Bird. He is still righteous.

The following is an online quote that I remember reading about one of Mr. Bird’s more fascinating songs, Tea and Thorazine (on the album Oh, The Grandeur!):

Tea and Thorazine sets the mood for the rest of the album which tends to stray from the vigor of "Candy Shop" and delve deeper into Andrew Bird's dark world of the mentally disturbed. The tune is slow, with eerie fiddle sounds to set the tone of a horrific mental institution. In the liner notes, the usually private Bird gives some insight into his inspiration- his brother is Autistic and spent some time in an institution where he got his art supplies taken away by some bad doctors.

Fried Chicken Livers

2009-01-11T15:37:00.000-08:00

Edgemont house is not to be mine. Fannie Mae came down some, I went up some, then we both sort of dug in our heels. No regrets. Moving on. Am putting the house buying on hold for a couple of months so that I can recover from the initial shock of almost owning a house. Plus, class starts tomorrow evening and I need to concentrate on that right now.

Today officially starts day three of a week-long vegetarian experiment that I have embarked upon. This all started when Kansas Slim’s brother told him about giving up meat for two weeks. Slim decided to follow suit. This was announced on the same night that I arrived on Slim’s doorstep with two rib eye steaks (no, it was not the sight of the steaks that reminded him of his brother’s endeavors)…I didn’t do the best job cooking those steaks that night, probably because I was feeling so much carnivorous pressure from the thoughts of possibly showing friendly support of Slim by giving up meat myself. I mean really, why let a friend face that kind of pressure all by themselves? I am aware of how difficult it is to give up something that you enjoy. I have tried a couple of grand gestures of Lenton surrenderings, and have failed miserably. Like the one time, in Ithica, when I gave up armpit shaving because lots of the young women who lived there were carefree and happily harry-pitted. It looked natural and low-maintenance, so I gave it a go. Even now, eleven years later, I still wake at night, bathed in a cold sweat, having relived in my nightmares the horrors of that week and a half I went sans Daisy shaver…make no mistake, I shave my pits religiously now.

But we’re talking meat, not armpit shaving. See, I also tried giving up meat once. It was back in 2004, and I was working at the horticulture school in Golden, CO at the time, and I intended to give up meat for a whole month. After about two weeks, I ended up giving up the giving up of the meat because I was doing manual labor and had zero energy with which to pick ax and shovel, and I felt it was all due to my dietary change. I just couldn’t do it…

So, I decided that since I am not doing much manual labor these days, I might be able to swing a week of vegetarianism this time. Yesterday, Slim and I went through some cookbooks, and talked about the meatless dishes that we already enjoyed on a regular basis. Then we decided on a menu for the week, loaded up our cloth bags and headed to Wal-Mart to purchase what foods we would need in order to have an herbivore’s chance in hell. The following is the list of contenders, some of which we went ahead and made last night to store up in the fridge:

Broccoli Salad-pictured above.
Pita Salad-bagged salad w/ feta and Kraft Zesty Italian dressing.
Black Bean Tacos w/ Salsa
Falafel Burgers-tofu is the main ingredient.
Indian Curried Potato Wrap
Hummus

I have high hopes this time. I have yet to be hungry, and may actually be eating a bit more in order to offset the psychological stress of knowing that I am purposefully avoiding meat. I woke up craving fried chicken livers this morning though…they’ll have to wait until Friday…

Wanted: A Place To Hang My Hat

2009-01-04T09:30:00.000-08:00

So, with the world’s smallest homebuying budget (pre-approved for an amount that is within my terribly realistic and below-poverty-level, but with good credit, means), I began about three weeks ago looking in earnest to purchase a home. After having to shell out what seemed to be millions of dollars in rent in my past life, I felt that I should put my money to work for me by buying instead of renting. I came to this conclusion after having compared the average cost of a single-family home here in Gadsden to Denver. In Denver, a single-family home of approximately 1200 square feet starts at around $275,000. Here in Gadsden, AL, a single-family home of the same size can start at $85,000, or even less. Why would I pay rent if I could build equity?

My first intent was to find something old and bungalow-ish (my favorite type of home), in the downtown area, something near the Catoes, Johnson’s Food and the liberry. I had a bitterly disappointing start with the old Greenwood home on Newton and Turrentine. From the outside, the Greenwood home looks charming and well-built. Once inside, it becomes evident that it is a first-time homebuyer’s nightmare. Too much work, work that would include things like ripping up asbestos tile in the kitchen, taking out an entire house of old wallpaper, replacing the roof that has been leaking so much that the back bathroom’s floor has buckled (meaning some interesting structural damage), replacing what appears to be the very first prototype of a modern central A/C unit, painting the entire inside and out (work that I am not opposed to, as I enjoy painting, but the outside shingles were also made of asbestos), tearing down the barely-standing “garage” that is full of black mold…etc, etc, ad nauseum. My realtor, Judy Hamil of Bone Realty, was very forthcoming when she warned me that I would probably have a difficult time finding something in the downtown area to suit my needs; if I could afford it (did I mention that I have the world’s smallest homebuying budget but pretty high old-school standards?), it would need significant work, which translates to significant money…if I could afford it and it didn’t need work, it would probably not be in a safe area…how sad to hear those words uttered out loud. I had been afraid of that being the case, but hadn’t really wanted to hear that it was, in fact, true.

So, I begged Judy to not knock herself out scouring her listings for me, especially considering my budget, that I would do the research and make a list of homes that I was interested in seeing by myself. With the help of Kansas Slim, we found a couple of places in the downtown area, and one really intriguing foreclosure in Alabama City. Now, Alabama City is my second area choice for living in Gadsden. I love the history of that area and I love the old Mill Village construction of the homes. Looking at the listing of this particular house in Alabama City, I couldn’t determine where it was located. There was not an address, and I didn’t recognize the house (when I first moved back to Gadsden, I was determined to find something in The Village, as I loved the idea of living close to the rodeo grounds, the old Victorian mill supervisor’s homes and, most importantly, Big Lots…so I drove around that area a lot back then). I assumed that the house was in an area that I was not interested in living…you know…Deliverance country...up near Hinds Road (cue banjo music)? But, after putting his super-power reporting skills to work, Eric discovered the address to said home, and we went up to investigate…and am very glad that we did. After first being confused at the orientation of the home (the road runs along the back-side of the homes on that street because the old road ran on the other side of the ravine), we saw enough of the place to know that it was on the list of homes to see with Judy. As a matter of fact, it moved to the top of the list of homes to see with Judy.

Last week, Judy met me at the little craftsman bungalow in the Mill Village. Kansas Slim was there to witness. Sadly, and happily, the Village house ruined me for all other houses. Please see photos on Eric’s and my Flickr sites:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/ericwright/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/carolroarkyork/

Judy showed me three more places within my price range in the downtown area after having shown me the Village bungalow, and I couldn’t help but compare them and notice that nothing was built as beautifully as the Village bungalow. I made the list of pros and cons…I had Eric, my dad and Kris go through it again with me to make sure that my eyes were seeing what I thought they were seeing…and I made an offer Friday evening. I am now waiting for word. There are lots of things that I’ve left out of this blog about the house, about my homebuying research, about my four mortgage pre-approvals (had to get the best fit for me), about deciding on which home inspector I would use in the event that my offer was eventually accepted, about my lists…lists of pros and cons, room-by-room prioritized lists of things that need to be done, frightening lists of financial things (earnest money, closing costs, pre-paids, on and on)…I wouldn’t want to bore you all. But I’m sure that if I get this house, it will all come out in the end, because I can’t talk about anything else. All I am capable of talking about right now is THE HOUSE. Which makes me impossible to be around. The Catoes have told me that it’s okay, that it’s normal, and that all of my friends have been through something like it before, and that everyone will understand (THEY-the Catoes-are especially understanding…right now the they are redoing their entire kitchen, this after less than a year of living at The Parsonage). My, oh my, but when it rains, it pours.

So, everyone please wish me luck, pray for me, light a candle for me, or do whatever it is you do. I know that it’s gonna be what it will be. It may be my time to own a house, it may not. We’ll see. I’m certainly getting an education in the meantime. I’ll keep you posted. And keep the Catoes in mind during the kitchen redo. I am looking forward to future parties in that new kitchen.

Reading: Amy Sedaris’ Hospitality Under the Influence (because she is my entertaining guru) and Harry Potter’s School Books by J.K. Rowling (a Christmas gift from the Robinsons).
Listening To: My own random thoughts about THE HOUSE.

Le Turtle Trifle

2008-12-10T06:19:00.000-08:00

Seeing as how I've had zero time to blog lately, and seeing as how I have had a request for this particular recipe, I am going to cheat today and blog about a recipe that I think everyone should have in their recipe box. It is easy beyond compare, it tastes really great, and it makes you look as if you went to study at le Cordon Bleu in Paris. So, be sure to print this recipe off. You will make it more than once. (I do not know its provenance; a copy of it appeared on the breakroom table last year, and I swipped it). My eternal thanks go out to that unknown individual.

Le Turtle Trifle (when you speak of this recipe, you must use a phony French accent, which I know you all can do...I've heard you)

8 oz. mascarpone cheese, softened (can sub. w/ 8 oz. of cream cheese)
1 ½ c. whipping cream
1 ½ t. vanilla extract
1 (2lb) frozen pecan pie, thawed and cut into 1 inch pieces
1/3 c. chocolate fudge topping
1/3 c. caramel topping
½ c. chopped toasted pecans

1. Beat mascarpone cheese, whipping cream, and vanilla extract in lg. bowl at med. speed (2-3 min, or until smooth and firm).
2. Place half of pie cubes in bottom of 4 qt. trifle dish or tall, clear 4 qt. bowl. Spread half of whipped cream mixture over pie cubes. Drizzle w/ half each of the chocolate and caramel topping. Sprinkle w/ half of chopped pecans. Repeat layers.
3. Cover and chill at least 1 hr. or up to 8 hrs.

Reading: Eclipse
Listening to: The Bad Plus
Eating: Cookies from the cookie exchange.